The Adventure of the Threatened New Yorker
by Amberlin
Summary: Holmes travels to NY to investigate murder attempts directed at a lawyer. He soon finds that the mystery is much deeper. Updated! Story is much better than the summary . . . I hope.
1. Default Chapter

The Start

"The criminal mind is one of the most uncomplicated mechanisms in existence."

This out-of-the-blue declaration came from the sprawled out form of my new roommate one dreary winter afternoon in the year 1881. Holmes had received his telegrams, which he promptly threw aside or transfixed to the mantelpiece in the most untidy manner and threw himself on the couch with a lone letter, which he proceeded to read for a great length of time. After approximately fifteen minutes of close inspection of the correspondence interspersed with incomprehensible mumbling to himself, he waved it languidly about in his hand and spoke those unsolicited words to me, or to the ceiling, depending on your point of view.

"Oh? I assumed you would think otherwise." I responded, not bothering to raise my eyes from the paper I had retrieved from the pile that accumulated everyday by Holmes' feet. The truth being that I was interested in what he had to say, as I always seemed to be, but my thoughts were a tad preoccupied. Christmas was approaching and I was getting the distinct feeling that Holmes neither celebrated the season as others, but also seemed to have no one with whom to do so even if he desired it. He made no move to broach the subject himself, so I was in the throes of a great dilemma; having no idea if I should venture to suggest that we celebrate the holiday together.

His baffling response to my feigned disinterest was an abrupt, "I do." I folded my newspaper to look at him and he elaborated, a small twinkle of satisfaction in his dark eye. "I'm speaking of the average criminal though, old boy. What I claim is very true, generally. Most crimes are committed for a very specific and obvious reason and in a way that is most convenient to the perpetrator, which usually means that the modus operandi is often easy to decipher. Most crimes lack imagination, though occasionally you may come across an impressive production, one that almost makes you nod your head in respect and admiration for the small whiff of criminal mastermind, but that is unfortunately rare indeed." He assumed a cross-legged position on the couch, leaning eagerly forward as if hoping for an argumentative response.

I was more than willing to give him one as I responded a tad huffily, "I do not believe any of the victims you represent would agree with your sentiment, Holmes. Perhaps you should keep that respect and admiration for criminal activity to yourself."

His mouth quirked strangely and the twinkle in his grey eyes grew into full blown amusement. After a moment of observing me, he burst into a fit of uncontrollable laughter at my, presumably, comically stern expression. "I am learning more about you, Watson, as each day goes by. You take every comment at face value." He regained himself. "What I was commenting on, merely, was that some crimes have such an air of imagination and intelligence behind them that, although it is a pity that these rare qualities have been applied to abominable acts, the talents must be respected. In fact, it saddens me at times when I come across a superior mind that has engaged in some illegal or villainous activity because it is such a waste."

"How so?"

"Because such superior thinking and skill, if applied to nobler endeavors, could produce great things. I've always considered some of my worthiest opponents as artists in their own right. It is a great shame that they decided to use their talents in such a way." He stretched out his long legs and held the letter up for me to see, jiggling it lightly as if I would have failed to notice it if he hadn't. "However, as interesting as this little debate is, it was merely a bad attempt on my part at segue into what I really wanted to ask you." It would seem, in the face of my scorn at what he probably considered a very reasonable statement, he now felt the need to play down the conversation and skim over it.

"Well, if you were a bit more expedient in getting to your point, these little misunderstandings could be easily avoided."

He sighed, "Will you allow me to explain?"

I still felt a little annoyed at his attempt to rankle me, but allowed him to switch subjects, since he was obviously anxious to do so. I put down my reading material, mockingly offering my full attention.

He grinned at me but besides quickly and deftly folding the letter with only his thumb and index finger - no mean feat - he simply launched into the particulars of the potential case, "I have received a letter from a Mr. Godwin from the States. It seems he has been waylaid numerous times on his way home from work, I believe he is a lawyer, and is fearful for his life."

"Waylaid in what manner?"

"He was pushed in front of a four-wheeler the first time approximately three weeks ago, which he wrote off as nothing. But other incidents have convinced him that these events are purposeful and _sinister_," he hissed dramatically. "He claims that a masked man entered his room one night and fought him. The intruder soon fled but Mr. Godwin says he has no doubt as to what his intention was."

"Does he go into details?"

"Not particularly, most of the letter is composed of ingratiating, and I feel, slightly annoying pleadings on his part for me to lend my humble services." Holmes had always been vulnerable to flattery, but only when it was sincere. He handed the letter over to me and stood. I read it as he went to the mantelpiece to light his pipe.

"Why do you suppose the intruder fled, Holmes?" I wondered. "If his intention was murder, what prevented him?"

"It is a tad peculiar, is it not? We can safely assume that if murder was the intention, the mysterious visitor would have come prepared, perhaps with a revolver of some sort. But then, I have not examined the scene or house, nor do I have all the facts of the incident. I will reserve judgment if I choose to look into it."

"You are not sure if you will go?"

He shrugged, "It does seem a petty problem at first glance."

I had only helped my new roommate on one other case so far, the notes which for I was in the process of organizing, but I already new that the cases he accepted had to fit a certain criteria of peculiarity. However, I had also noticed in the last few weeks, that he seemed to be teetering on the verge of that black depression that claimed him when he became too bored or inactive. I silently hoped he would consent to nose around, if not simply to give him something to do besides crawling around in his tatty dressing gown or giving our admirable landlady a near heart attack with sudden and irrational behavior - the worst of which, so far, had been a strange habit of practicing with his revolver indoors.

I could already see the wake of too many long nights out boxing lining his face - a healing lip, a cut above his ear - and I knew he was pushing himself too far to stay out of the languor that gripped him like some mad beast. I often noted that this cycle tended to end in some rather distressing injuries - all of which I knew Holmes could very well avoid with his skills in the ring, but all of which I also knew he allowed his opponent to inflict to keep the matches long and interesting. I was simply waiting for the day he let his guard down just a little too much--

The very thought of that almost made me shudder.

I put the letter on the table and tried to seem nonchalant about the matter, in spite my urge to bound into his rooms and begin packing for him.

"It has no points of interest?" I asked.

He inhaled on his pipe and seemed to contemplate for a bit, "Well, I have never been to States, nonetheless to New York."

Holmes often spoke wistfully about the Americas and his wish to see the United States. I always did wonder why he did not simply take a holiday if he desired to travel there, but Holmes never approached anything in an ordinary way.

"You could always give it your attention and if it seems to be a simple matter or perhaps cleared up quickly, it would not harm you to spend the rest of your time there leisurely." I remarked offhandedly, knowing he didn't need much encouragement to travel abroad.

"Have you been to New York, Watson?"

I shook my head, wondering if that was his way of asking for my company. I had enjoyed myself immensely with him in our last endeavor, but he had never asked me to spend free time with him for no purpose besides watching a few of his boxing matches. And even this I believe he only welcomed because I was willing to split my winnings with him if he won.

"I would probably leave tomorrow. Is that notice too short for you? I would appreciate your company and I know you have nothing keeping you here for the next few weeks."

"I have plenty of things to keep me here," I retorted.

"Yes, yes," he smiled, and I saw that telltale look of satisfaction on his face that I was beginning to recognize as triumph at goading me into an argument, "but I'm sure none of your 'things' will miss you for a few weeks."

I smiled amiably at him, ignoring the verbal bait. "I would love to join you. A trip to States sounds most refreshing." I agreed.

He looked a bit surprised, or perhaps put out that I didn't put up more of a fight. His mouth twitched into that strange half smirk, half confused twist that was so unique to him. The he smiled, bright and wide and sauntered into his room without acknowledging my assent, and pulled out his travel case to ready himself. I pushed myself up from my chair, favoring my leg slightly for it always gave me pain during cold weather, and departed to my own room to pack.

__________________

The days I idled away with Holmes on the ocean liner to America were both comfortable and congenial. Holmes even spent some of his evening's playing cards with the other men in the smoking-room, an American version of poker, I believe. He walked away with more money to his name than when he sat down and the flippant pride in his eyes when he'd knock on my door after a night of gaming was unmistakable. Stretching out his lean, beaten and worn hand to me, he'd display the crumpled up notes and coins in his palm before walking back into his adjoining room without a word, leaving me smiling at his almost childlike need to show me his accomplishments. His winnings were so great, in fact, that by the end of our journey he had acquired the unfortunate nickname "The Wild Card", much to his chagrin.

The fact that we were bound for the States to pursue a case did not seem to come up in the mind of my traveling companion. Even further, he flat-out refused to speak to me about it in any detail.

"I follow the strict rule, self-imposed, of course," he stated, quick to clarify that no other man imposed anything on him, "that discussion of a case's facts before I have seen them for myself is mere speculation and detrimental to the clear mind one must possess when he approaches a problem."

This maxim was declared to me on the last night of our voyage. He stood on the isolated deck beneath the crescent moon , half-shrouded by the lazily rolling clouds. He had disappeared from the foray that was being hosted on the ship and was now alone, playing a beautifully arching solo on his beloved violin. The melody was clear and cutting through the cold sky, in sharp contrast to the muffled playing of the ship's band through the double-doors leading to the ballroom. I joined him there beneath the sentinel, shivering violently against the frosty air. It was not easy for me to endure cold, being much more acclimated to heat, and to make matters worse, my shoulder began throbbing terribly.

Holmes, on the other hand, stood in nothing but his shirtsleeves, apparently oblivious to the chill and wind. He maintained his relaxed posture against the railing, his violin tucked snuggly under his chin, as I approached. He was seemingly unaware of my presence until I was stationed right next to him. He played a few more notes before lowering it to his side.

"The cold hinders your movement, doctor. Perhaps it would be wise for you to retreat back to the warmth of the ballroom."

It presented itself as more of a question than a suggestion, to which I gave a shrug in response. "The band's choice of music is not much to my liking. I've always been drawn to Mendelssohn, so, naturally, as I heard Violin Concerto in E minor wafting faintly through the walls of that smoke-filled prison, I was glad to seek out its source."

"I do Mendelssohn no justice," he replied in uncharacteristic modesty, "and I am surprised to hear you refer to the party as a prison of any sort; I noticed the fine variety of femininity on display. The lady at the table behind us was eyeing you most avidly during dinner. I took my leave in hopes you may summon courage to strike up a pleasant conversation. I see I overestimated your observational abilities." Amused sarcasm was one of the many things Holmes excelled at.

"The dainty thing with the low-cut dress?"

"Indeed." He murmured neutrally, though I do think I caught a hint of appreciation.

"Well, it seems it's not a matter of overestimating me, but rather, underestimating yourself."

"Oh, really? How so?"

"She was eyeing you, Holmes."

His expression betrayed his surprise, "Was she? I was sure…"

"I would lay down my medical license on it," I reassured confidently.

He smirked, "Would you now? Well, in that case, I'll take your word for it. I know how protective you are of you hard-earned credentials, doctor."

"Perhaps it is you who should retreat back to the ballroom and discreetly strike up a pleasant conversation."

His nose scrunched up in distaste, "I do not mean to offend your gentlemanly sensibilities, my good man, but my general view of women of that class is that they lack the intelligence to carry on an engaging discourse."

He settled his violin and bow gently on the deck by his feet. When he straightened, he guarded the fiddle with his foot as if protecting it from careless, trampling feet despite the fact we were the lone occupants of the deck.

"They certainly like to agree." I concurred, a little reluctantly.

"Agreeing is in fashion."

Hearing the acrimony in his words, I decide to change the subject. "It is certainly nice out here."

"Like the calm before the storm."

"Are you thinking of the case?"

He lit a cigarette, the red tip illuminating his artistic features for the merest second. "I never speculate on a case before I undertake it officially."

"That's a trifle unorthodox, is it not?" I pondered. "The police often speculate and theorize on facts before they have seen them. It's the bulk of their work."

"The police do many things that are actually a hindrance to their investigation instead of an aid."

"Do they?"

"Indeed, their dilettantish efforts at police work are quite embarrassing to all who dare call themselves detectives."

"The way you speak, one would assume that London is teeming with criminals and ne'er do wells." I responded.

"That is precisely the state of London, doctor. Do you not travel outside your room, old man?"

"Well, then," I huffed, "how would Scotland Yard operate under your direction?"

He gave me a sparkling smile, which in the dark seemed almost as if it belonged to another man altogether. "Would you care to hear some of my philosophies, doctor?"

I nodded and leaned back against the rail, preparing myself for the first of many lectures to follow in my friendship with Holmes.


	2. Meetings

Meetings

We did not escape the snow in New York, but I had to admit to a queer tolerance of it. Perhaps it was simply the novelty of being in such a new and beguiling place. Holmes seemed to have caught the same excitement and on our carriage ride to the inn, he spoke at length of all the things he desired to see. He spoke with the air of an expert and I suspected that he had read up on the area. I had no doubt that it took him a mere few days to become an authority; Holmes had a unique way of retaining knowledge and retrieving from his mind almost anything he had read or seen, even in passing.

The road to the inn was a long one, speckled with beautiful and meticulously aligned trees. The snow shimmered off the branches and piled up on the side of the road, having been swept aside for four-wheelers. Mr. Godwin's estate actually lay on the same road; the east side looking out to a corner of Central Park

The statues from which New York was famous seemed to be high on my friend's priority list, along with Madison Square Garden and the beautiful Park, which we were gaining a nice glimpse of as we rode along on one of the streets that lay parallel. The eagerness he showed in visiting the Museum bespoke of the art in his blood. Even more interesting to me though, was his enthusiasm towards the prospect of visiting such notorious slums as Five Points, Hell's Kitchen, and the Lower East Side.

I listened intently to him as he spoke of the history of Central Park, informing me quite gravely that "before the construction of the park could commence, the area had to be cleared of inhabitants, most of which lived in smaller villages, such as Seneca Village, Harsenville, the Piggery District or the Convent of the Sisters of Charity and were usually immigrants of German or Irish origin, most of whom were quite poor."

"To reach art, at times one must use the backs of the poor as their stepstools," I lamented.

Holmes' large, inky eyes seemed to widen at my offhand remark, but before he could respond the carriage pulled to a stop before what appeared to be an old ancestral home that had been renovated into a cozy inn. Snow hung on the white eaves and the house seemed to ooze warmth, though that may have simply been an illusion brought about by the brisk cold of the four-wheeler.

"Well, it may be no Langham, but it looks warm," Holmes commented as we stepped out of the growler.

The proprietor was a pleasant-looking middle-aged woman who greeted us warmly as we approached the desk. She introduced herself as Mrs. Swanson and inquired as to whether we had a reservation. Her blonde curls bounced lightly around her open and oval face.

"I sincerely hope so," my companion responded, flashing her one of his rare but naturally warm smiles. "It should be under Holmes…or perhaps Mr. Godwin."

She perused her leather-bound book as Holmes leaned patiently against the oak counter, fiddling with some unseen thing on the side of the of inkwell. To ignore his maddening fidgeting about, I surveyed the interior of the inn. The foyer was adorned with deep mauve carpeting and rich oak paneling and furniture. High above our heads hung a rococo chandelier.

To my right, the room that, I could only assume, was the original sitting-room had been turned into a common room with cushy seats and tables stacked high with the daily papers. To my left, the ballroom had been transformed into a large dining-area where the guests could sup.

The wide staircase led to the upper floor, which held rooms in addition to the ones in the back of the house.

"Yes, I have you here as Mr. Godwin," Mrs. Swanson finally announced. She dipped her pen into the inkwell and began making changes on her roster. "Let me just rewrite you as Mr. Holmes so that I know who you are. Otherwise, I'll be sure to call you Mr. Godwin for the rest of your stay. Though…." she contemplated, "your name is awfully familiar. Would it be too forward to ask you your Christian name?"

Holmes vacillated, though he was not the most modest of men, the idea of fame following him around made him distinctly uncomfortable.

"Sherlock," he stated neutrally and the twinkle that suddenly appeared in our hostess's hazel eyes betrayed her recognition.

"The English detective? I've read about you in the papers. Though, the London Daily Times seems to be more inclined to downplay your involvement with Scotland Yard's cases." It was an astute observation that did not go unnoticed by my friend. He nodded, suddenly interested in what she had to say now that she had spoken highly of him, and she continued, "Did Mr. Godwin summons you here?"

"He asked for my assistance and I agreed to come," Holmes corrected. Holmes was never summoned anywhere, he was invited.

"He's been making a ruckus around here lately about someone after him," she riposted, a tad mockingly.

Holmes caught on immediately to her tone. "You don't put much faith in his claims?" My friend's face became alert, pinning the woman with his sharp gaze.

It was a testament to Mrs. Swanson that she appeared comfortable there and responded without a hint of reservation. "I have my views of the man, which I suppose, are not proper for me to voice to strangers. Perhaps I merely possess that distrustfulness that seems to come with age and wisdom. So shall I show you to your room?"

Holmes let the matter drop and followed her upstairs. He gave her one of his peculiar once-overs from behind, from the top of her curly hair to the hem of her skirts that she held up in her ascent. After she bid us good-day and departed, Holmes threw open the door that connected our rooms. I could see that his suitcase had already been thrown carelessly on his bed and his precious violin-case place gently on the dresser drawer.

"Mrs. Swanson seems pleasant," I stated, trying to draw him out.

"Very intelligent, too. A rare combination," he murmured, examining with the various decorations and scattered items adorning the furniture.

"It must be hard for a widow to run this place all by herself," I commented.

He looked up sharply from the porcelain angel he had retrieved from the bureau. "Why are you so sure she is a widow?"

"She wore a wedding band but not on her ring finger, but rather on her index finger," I explained.

Holmes smiled crookedly. "So I see simple deductions are not beyond you after all, that is, on the right subjects."

His words stung. "You know, Holmes," I snipped, "you certainly do like to make a fellow feel like a perfect simpleton."

His smile faltered and for a queer moment he actually seemed at a loss for words. "I beg your pardon, Watson. You should know that I can be quite an impersonal man at times. If ever my words seem insulting, I dearly hope you do not take them as such, for I would not wish to offend you for the world."

My anger softened at his earnestly spoken words and at my pardoning look, he continued, "Besides, simply because the deduction was basic does not mean it was not extremely observant of you. Most would not have even noted it."

It was high praise coming from him.

"Yes, well, I . . . " I tried to respond, finding myself at a loss.

"I too . . . " He suddenly seemed to find the top of the dresser extremely engrossing. Then he coughed, looked anywhere but at me, and walked back into his own room.

"We must not tally," he called to me brusquely, "Mr. Godwin is expecting us."

Mr. Godwin's home was an imposing two-story hall with an impressive view into Central Park. Unlike the grandiose halls of Southern England, though, its porch steps met the sidewalk, much like the modest flats of Baker Street.

Holmes stood for a moment, staring up at the windows of the upper story, as if trying to read the house for clues, before trotting up the steps at a brisk pace and cracking loudly on the heavy door with the edge of his walking stick. A few minutes passed without a sound. Holmes leaned forward, attempting to discern any movement beyond the door. Frowning lightly, he rapped noisily on the wood once more, his patience obviously wearing thin. The dead silence of the house stretched on and finally my annoyed friend turned away from the door, exasperation plain on his face.

Just as we reached the next to last step, the door swung open, casting a sickly orange glow onto the snow about the walkway and steps. The shadow of a woman's cap stepped into the light and we both stared down at it before turning to regard her. The maid was plain girl, maybe five-and-twenty, with a timid and unsure manner about her. She curtsied to us before taking our coats, never once asking us who we were. We were ushered into the hall, an ample space that held a rambling staircase that winded lazily to the second floor. The maid led us to a room that lay to the direct right of the stairs and hurriedly informed us that the master of the house would be down shortly to see us. With that she left the room, closing the doors soundly behind her.

I had to admit to a certain disquieting feeling that had developed as soon as we'd entered this odd house. When I looked from the door to Holmes, he was regarding me out of the corner of his quick eyes and I was fairly certain that he had also detected the same disconcerting impression that the house invoked.

We did not voice our concerns though and I merely watched as Holmes removed his coats and draped them across a plush chair as if he were at his own home. I refrained from rebuking him and remained silent as he ambled around the room, fingering the antiques and eyeing the many portraits. I took a strategic seat on the couch, were I could relax but also see whatever it was that Holmes was examining. He ran his fingers over the picture of a young girl in the arms of a dark-haired woman, both strikingly beautiful, though I got the impression that the portrait did not do either of them justice.

"Do you examine everything you come across so minutely, Holmes?" I finally felt it necessary to ask.

"Does it bother you, old man?" he responded cheekily.

"No, though I do feel sorry for any poor woman who agrees to marry you," I riposted. Even from my odd vantage point of behind and to the right of him, I could see a feather of a smile touch his lips, but he remained silent on the subject.

"This man here," he pointed a long finger at an older chap, balding and with a stern expression that seemed entirely at home on his hard countenance, "this is Mr. Godwin's father. Mr. Godwin inherited a large fortune from him, which is why he is able to live so comfortably here."

I rubbed my head tiredly, feeling worn out and stretched taut after our trip abroad. "How do you presume to know all that?No wait, let me guess, his cufflinks are engraved but not with his own initials, ergo they must have been passed down to him which would mean that Mr. Godwin has already come into his inheritance. This, along with the state of his home, lead you to conclude-"

"Why the sudden testy mood?" the detective interrupted. He had adopted, I suspect merely to annoy me, an energetic and happy tone.

"I'm tired, Holmes. Aren't you?"

He shrugged. "Are you always this," he waved his hand around in my direction, "snippy when you're tired?"

"Holmes -" I sighed, "Just tell me what you were going to say. How did you know about Godwin's inheritance?"

He slipped his hands into his pockets, looking put out, "Because Mrs. Swanson informed me of that while you were freshening up. But your theory was good as well." He leaned forward, apparently trying to espy the engravings on the picture Godwin's cufflinks.

I contemplated a moment, "If he has such a large birthright, why is he still employed as a lawyer?"

"Perhaps he does not engage in his work for money, perhaps he simply enjoys what he does," Holmes replied blithely but there was tightness in his voice that led me to suspect that he was speaking of himself also. I wondered, not for the first time, if Holmes' choice of livelihood was not a cause of strain between him and his family, if he did indeed have one at all.

From somewhere beyond the double-doors of the study I could vaguely hear the soft music of a piano deftly playing Brahms' Piano Concerto No. 1, and I became momentarily distracted. Holmes' head shifted slightly, as if trying to pinpoint from which direction it was ascending but he made no mention of it to me. He resumed his fingering of the pictures and then tilted his head back to stare at the ceiling above his head. I refrained from asking what he hoped to discern from it.

"I really do hope we can get on with this," he muttered. Never a patient man, he wandered back around to the entrance, touching everything in his path.

"It does seem rather ill-mannered for our host to keep us waiting," I concurred.

I looked to Holmes to see why he had grown so quiet. He stood facing a hanging portrait on the wall in front of him; a young girl stared back, the same one from the smaller picture. Holmes' face had grown intent, hard and he appeared to be staring right through the image rather than at it. I knew without a doubt that he was enraptured by the melody that had now grown more commanding and sure. Holmes' had a passion for music that was unsurpassed by men much more hot-blooded than him by nature.

I decided to test my theory. "Perhaps Mr. Godwin has lured us here under false guises and is caught up in the process of arranging stowaway places for our bodies under the floorboards of his library." Holmes did not seem to hear me but we both jumped as a voice boomed within the room.

"Or perhaps he simply was in the process of trying fruitlessly to retrieve a lost cufflink from beneath his bureau."

We both turned with surprised expressions towards the door. A dark-haired gentleman, tall and uncommonly burly, stood in the entranceway, smirking and holding up his shirt-sleeve that was indeed missing one golden cufflink.

Holmes recovered quickly, though I must admit I was a little taken aback to learn that it was even possible to catch my flatmate unawares. He strode forward and extended his hand politely. "Mr. Holmes and this is my good friend and assistant, Dr. Watson."


	3. Ivy

Ivy

I frowned at the unexpected title but suspected that Holmes was merely trying to head off any objections to my presence. Mr. Godwin gave me a once over, his slightly rumpled linen suit giving him the impression of a disheveled ringmaster. He nodded at me brusquely, either annoyed or indifferent to my presence and gestured for us to sit. He waited until we were settled before running a hand through his short gray hair and taking a seat across from Holmes.

Holmes' sharp gray eyes regarded our host for a moment.

"I am very grateful that you agreed to come here to see me, Mr. Holmes," Mr. Godwin stated politely and flatly. Looking at his sleek features and stiffness, it did not seem to me that a look of delight or a smile would be quite at home on his face.

My friend tipped his head in a half-hearted bow and brought a finger up to his lips, squinting his eyes briefly in examination of the man in front of him. "The case sounded intriguing. How did you hear of me?"

"You helped a young, newly-married couple about three months ago, the Russells. The young wife was an American."

"Ah yes." I was certain Holmes didn't remember any of what our host was speaking of. The flutter of his dark eyes to a point in the corner of the room was all I needed to see to know he was at a loss. But Mr. Godwin was not familiar enough to understand the look and merely continued on.

"Her sister lives just outside of town and word spread when Mrs. Russell came here to visit a few weeks ago. She went on about you. Naturally I felt the need to call you once suspicious things began happening. I hoped you might lend me your humble talents before I decided to go to the authorities."

Holmes looked a little nettled at that detested word "humble" but managed to ignore it. "Suspicious things?" he replied.

"I received a few threatening letters. I wrote them off at first. Being a lawyer, you inevitably leave a few unhappy people in your wake who wish to frighten you."

"Do you still have these letters?"

"I have them here in the drawer." He went to a drawer in the wine cabinet and pulled out a bundle of papers. Holmes examined them minutely, but did not pull out his magnifying glass.

"Fine quality stationary, plain with no telling marks," he mumbled as he held them up to the light. "All the letters cut out of different papers and journals." He pulled at the edge of two or three pieces and flicked his tongue against them. "Glued with different adhesives. Relatively generic threats. Hard to tell anything from these. How did you receive them?"

"Slipped under my door."

"When did you receive the last one?"

"About a month ago."

Disappointment crept across his usually impassive face. "Any evidence would be obliterated by the snow within a few days. May I smoke?" He was given consent and he struck a match on the bottom of his worn shoes.

After a moment of silence, comfortable to us, but strained to Mr. Godwin, Holmes blew out a cloud of smoke and regarded our host. "Do you have any ideas, sir, of who might desire to harm you?" The smoke blurred my friend's expression, leaving his own thoughts inscrutable.

Mr. Godwin spread his hands theatrically, "I've turned it over and over in my mind, young man, but I can come up with no one."

Holmes mouth quirked slightly at the reference to his age but he thankfully bit his tongue, something I had noticed was difficult for him on occasions. "Well, does anyone have anything to gain from your….passing?"

"My step-daughter is my sole beneficiary but she is entirely out of the question."

"May we meet her?"

Mr. Godwin vacillated, "Well, of course. But I assure you…"

"And I assure you that I do mean to imply you do not know your daughter, but I would still like to meet her." Holmes interrupted smoothly.

Our host tugged at a bell-pull and a few moments later, instructed the young maid who had permitted us entrance to fetch his daughter.

As we waited, Holmes continued the discourse. "So if you say no one would benefit from doing you harm, then perhaps you have angered someone? Do you have any recollection of anything of that nature?"

"Well, I do owe Matthews a spot of money."

"Who is Matthews?"

"An old friend of mine. I lost a substantial amount to him at cards."

Holmes waved his hand airily, "Yes, but he would not get his hands on that money unless you were alive."

A strange expression came over Mr. Godwin's face at my friend's dismissal. "But then Ivy would have all the estate and I hate to think what could happen to her if some developed designs on her fortune."

"I assume Ivy is your daughter." Holmes fell into thought again, "Why do you simply not pay the man what you owe him?"

"Because he cheated!"

Before Holmes could respond to this outburst, the soft footsteps of a woman could be heard beyond the door and a timid knock announced the presence of Mr. Godwin's step-daughter. She stepped in without waiting for permission to enter, as we all stood quickly to welcome her.

Even in the darkness of where she stood, I could see she was beyond beautiful. I have seen many women in the course of my life, some of whom were handsomer than the average specimen, but this young girl was breathtaking. She seemed to be about 20 years old, a young but mature age. Her black hair was not up in the usual fashion, but fell upon her shoulders in silky curls. She walked to her father's side and I noticed she walked with an unusual gait, almost unaware of herself. She turned to regard us, a look of abstract interest on her face. Her eyes were startling, one a rich color of violet, the other a pale blue.

I have to admit that her appearance left me speechless. Holmes stood, his face remaining neutral, though I noticed his jaw tighten.

"May I present to you my daughter, Ivy. Ivy, these are the men I spoke to you about." He gestured between us and spoke to his daughter as if she were a child. She nodded mutely, her eyes on my friend. It was then that I realized that she what was unique about her. As a medical doctor, I could tell she had been touched by a malady of the mind. I had seen it before, a stunted growth of the mental abilities.

I suspected Holmes caught on also to the exceptionality of the young girl and moved forward to grasp her hand gently. He raised it to his lips and kissed it in that easy and gallant manner that was natural to him. "It is my pleasure," he murmured appreciatively, earning a wide smile and a look of awe from the lady.

"Say hello, Ivy," Mr. Godwin ordered, a little forcefully and nudged her roughly on the back. I felt it was unnecessary but tried to keep in mind the obvious difficulty and stress of raising such a child.

She curtsied in an endearingly clumsy way, her eyes locked on my friend. Something about him had caught her attention. Holmes, for his part, ignored her interest and seemed not at all uncomfortable.

I strode forward and kissed her hand also and was shocked by the onslaught of giggles that overtook her. She pointed to her mouth and then was overtaken by another fit of laughter. Holmes wore a large smile of his own. "I think she likes your mustache, doctor."

Mr. Godwin let out a dry chuckle, "She's quite susceptible to tickling."

"You were playing the piano, my lady?" Holmes inquired, a softness overtaking his usual brisk voice. She nodded and locked those extraordinary eyes on him intently once again. Holmes didn't falter, though lesser men would have. "You play very well."

"Thank you." Her voice was as beautiful as her form, a pleasing mezzo. Her eyes never left him and finally Mr. Godwin cleared his throat.

"Alright then, Ivy, back to your room," he ordered her away and she floated off, occasionally stealing a glance behind her at my companion.

Her presence lingered long after the sound of her skirts disappeared up the stairs. Mr. Godwin and Holmes resumed their seats, and I followed suit, still feeling unbalanced by the young lady.

"As I said," Mr. Godwin continued, "my step-daughter is quite incapable of malice."

"I believe," Holmes began slowly and for the first time in our short acquaintance, seemed to be gathering his thoughts, "that saying she is exceptional would hardly due her justice. Would it be too forward to ask what afflicts her?"

"I am not sure. I am reluctant to put her through any more tests, especially considering the initial ones did nothing to cast light on her condition. She leads quite an ordinary life, and that's all that I really want for her. Her mother passed a few years ago and I prefer to leave Ivy undisturbed."

"Does she perhaps have a learning disability?" I ventured to ask, feeling quite out of my depth as a general practitioner.

"No, she's very bright actually. I do not think it's so much a matter of her having trouble understanding us as it is a matter of us not understanding her. She catches on quickly to whatever we teach her, as you can tell by her piano skills. She can also paint, though sometimes her subject matter is….unsettling."

"I assure you sir, that it is not my usual way to judge anyone on the basis of appearance. But I have to agree with you that the lovely Ivy does not seem a likely candidate for these threats," Holmes conceded. "So perhaps you would like to tell me about this other incident referred to in your letter?"

"It happened nearly a week ago, six days ago to be exact. I was about to doze off after reading for the night."

"What time was this?" Holmes interrupted, wanting a complete and factual account of the incident, as was usual for him.

"I began reading about 10 and, as per my usual habit, I was engrossed in my book for only about half of an hour before putting it away and laying down. As I said, I was just about to doze off when I heard the window next to the divan slide open. I was quiet, waiting to see if I had imagined it when I caught sight of a figure creeping around the foot of the bed."

"What did this figure look like?"

"Slight but wiry, he had a black mask on and roped shoes. To be honest, he was so stealthy, I probably wouldn't have ever noticed he was there if it weren't for that creaky window."

"But you did…" Holmes encouraged, impatience creeping into his voice.

"Yes and as soon as he cleared the corner of the bed, I sprang up and he started back. I think he was planning to strangle me in my sleep. He retreated and I pursued him and he tumbled back out of the window and across the lawn."

"You gave chase?"

"Heavens no! It was snowing and I was hardly prepared for a pursuit in the middle of the night."

Holmes nodded and murmured something to himself that I did not catch. "May I see your bedchamber, sir?" he finally asked our host. Something about the set of my friend's jaw betrayed his distaste for Mr. Godwin.

We were led up the staircase and through the hallway, through which the dramatic keys of the piano could be heard once more. Holmes slowed as we passed by the door that led to the source of the music and I could see once again that the skill of the player had impressed him and caught his interest, perhaps even more so than the present analytical problem he was attempting to unravel.

Mr. Godwin noticed his distraction and addressed it as he gestured us towards his chambers. "Ivy is a superb pianist. My wife and I arranged for her lessons when she was merely 5 years old in hopes of finding something to capture her extraordinarily restless interest." He opened a large door and ushered us into a comfortable bed-chamber. He continued his commentary, "We were, needless to say, quite taken aback by how quickly she took to it. She has a passion for it above all else."

Holmes "hmmmm" in curt reply while examining the room, an exercise he had undertaken as soon as we'd entered. We fell into silence as we watched him scuttle around the room, examining everything with his lens. He fingered the book that lay next to the bed and then prodded the mattress with his finger. "Watson, would you be so kind as to open the window?"

I did as asked without knowing why. I went to the closest shutter but was stopped by Holmes' irritated voice. "No, no, man, the one by the couch."

I did as asked, and then turned to face him, ready for an explanation. My enigmatic friend merely sat on the side of the bed and leaned forward, his hands clasped together at his chin. After a moment, he roused himself, "Would you allow me to intrude just a moment more and permit me to speak to your daughter once again?"

"Well, uh," Mr. Godwin faltered like a man tripping over his own feet. Holmes merely stared as he groped for words, not willing to save the man from his own inelegance and growing impatient, if the sudden shifting of his weight from foot to foot was any indication.

"I suppose you could," Godwin managed, "but I hardly see that she could assist you, her mind is not as strong as the minds of other young ladies'."

Holmes stood and smiled amiably, though I suspected that his show of cordiality was forced. "Do not underestimate the mind of anyone, sir. Young Ivy may be more capable of understanding the outside world than you give her credit for."

"I mean no offence, but you hardly are in a position to tell me about my daughter. I believe I know her a bit better than you, young man."

This time Holmes did not hide his irritation at the reference, and for a few moments, he and our host stared silently at each other. Finally, Holmes' mouth slinked up in one of his common, humorless smirks. "All things aside, sir, perhaps you will indulge me?"

Mr. Godwin shrugged, feigning indifference that was almost laughable in the light of his previous gracelessness. He led us back through the hall and past the doorway to the piano room. It was silent on the other side, and we walked a few more paces to a room at the end of the hall, at the front of the house. Mr. Godwin gave a few swift knocks on the hard wood before allowing himself entrance. Holmes and I lingered back, hesitant to enter any lady's boudoir without her express permission.

Mr. Godwin ushered us in, though, appearing exasperated at our, what I considered, gentlemanly consideration. Her bed-chamber was breathtaking, layered with a rich dark blue and pure white. It was large, though not as large as her step-father's, and canvasses were bundled up in most corners and on her sofa. The pictures were bright, lacking any coherence, with paint strewn across the surface in random directions. Ivy herself sat at a small desk that was stationed right next to her bay window, through which I could make out the top of the wrought-iron fence that encircled Central Park.

She turned in her seat to face us, gracing us with another of her wide and genuine smiles. Holmes approached her with an ease that was, sadly, even uncommon among doctors when faced with patients such as her. He pointed to a chair near her desk and asked permission to sit.

"Of course," she answered, some of her former shyness already wearing away. She drew the chair closer to her before Holmes could sit. "You come to help?"

Holmes took the proffered seat, "Help with what?"

She gestured to her papers and Holmes leaned onto the desk, taking an interest in what she was showing him. Either Holmes truly believed she would enlighten him in this case, or her was sincerely fond of her, for he was not one to tolerate small talk with just anyone. I ventured forward to look at the sheets and noticed a great number of musical notations.

"I'm sorry, Ivy - may I call you Ivy?" Chivalry was not always natural to Holmes, but when he wanted to, he could fairly ooze charm. "I'm sorry," he continued, "but that is not what I came here for. Though, I write music too. But I play the violin, not the piano. Do you know what the violin is?"

She nodded, "It's what you put here." She reached out and gestured to the underside of his jaw, but did not touch him. Her fingers shifted up and lingered over a still visible split in his upper lip but she merely frowned and dropped her hand lightly back onto her desk.

"That's right."

"You have it with you? Will you play for me?"

"I don't have it with me. Perhaps I'll bring it when I visit you again. I'll play you some of my own music and you can tell me if you think it's pleasant or if I should just stick to detective work." Holmes winked good-naturedly at her. I marveled at the natural way he spoke to her, as if he believed she could understand as well as any other person. It was a respect that I doubted Ivy received often.

"You are a detective?

"Yes."

"You…detect?" A smile was growing on her face, slowing revealing a perfect row of white teeth and a dimple on her right side that I hadn't noticed before.

"Yes," Holmes answered without a trace of annoyance or impatience, only a mild amusement that I saw clearly when he glanced quickly at me over her head.

"You are a detecting detective?" I stifled a chuckle at the title and Ivy threw herself into another fit of giggles. Holmes cast another amused glance at me and let her laugh until she abruptly stopped and reached out to grasp his arm, as if just realizing something of extreme importance. Holmes' face hardened, becoming alert to the change. "Are you here to find out about the bad thing?" she asked.

"The bad thing that happened a few days ago? Did you see someone in the house or in the yard, Ivy?" Holmes analyzed her, on guard for any thing of importance.

"No." She shook her head as if confused and disappointed at my friend. "The bad things that happen out there." She pointed past his ear to the window behind him. Holmes did not turn to look where she was pointing, but a curiosity flared up in his eyes that was unmistakable to any who knew him even a bit.

"What bad things happen out there?"

She slapped her hand against her mouth a few times in, what appeared to be, frustration. Then she grabbed a heavy scrapbook that lay next to her elbow and, without warning, slammed it down against the desk three times, hard enough to echo throughout the room. Holmes drew back surprised, but lifted a halting hand when Mr. Godwin moved forward to contain her. She calmed after the sudden outburst and leveled her unfathomable gaze back onto him as if she expected him to understand.

"I don't know what that means, Ivy," Holmes said softly, as if he did not like to admit it to himself any more than he liked to admit it to her.

Her stare never tottered and she reached out to take hold of his hand without breaking eye contact. When she started moving his hand towards the lacy top of her dress, Mr. Godwin strode forward, reprimanding her.

Holmes pulled his hand away and began to stand, failing to completely hide his discomfort. She would not release his hand though, and latched onto him.

"Ivy! Release him!" Mr. Godwin grabbed her under her arm roughly but she managed to keep hold of my friend's hand, who was too much of a gentleman to lay a finger on her even to disentangle himself. She struggled and reached into her top herself and pulled out an object that she thrust into Holmes' hand.

"It's alright, let go of her, please," my friend commanded authoritatively and Mr. Godwin obeyed. Holmes eyed the object she had been trying to show him and fiddled with the trinket until the small, gold locket popped open. It was attached to her neck with a slender chain that I had failed to notice under her hair.

Holmes examined the picture.

"Mama," she whispered.

Holmes showed her the picture, "This is your mother?"

She nodded and I have to admit that I was moved by the look of sadness on her pretty features. She pointed out the window again. Holmes turned to look and Mr. Godwin intervened, "This has gone far enough. I do not wish you to disturb her any longer."

We obliged and moved to the door, wishing Ivy a pleasant night. She grabbed once more at my friend as he stood but her step-father restrained her with a few whispered words.


	4. Musings

Musings

After Holmes gave his assurance that he would indeed look into the matter, we were furnished with our coats and gloves and ushered out of the door with great haste. We stood on the porch for a few moments as Holmes pulled on his outer layer, something he had not been given time to do before we were so unceremoniously shoved out of the house. He hadn't worn a hat, despite the cold, and it didn't seem to bother him.

"I think we annoyed our host," I commented.

Holmes gave a harsh bark of laughter that seemed to be a mixture between a scoff and an expression of dry amusement. I descended the steps and heard my friend's tread behind me, recognizing that he was deep in thought.

When we had distanced ourselves sufficiently from the house, Holmes shoved his gloved hands into his pockets and leaned close to me as we strolled leisurely along the snow lined cobblestone. "Well, dear Watson, do you have any thoughts you might share?"

"Miss Godwin is very beautiful; extraordinary actually, in many respects."

A large smile crept over the detectives' sharp features. "Yes, yes, man. But I was asking you had observed anything that I had not."

I pulled my bowler farther down onto my forehead and braced myself against the sudden wind the wafted up from down the street. I tried to ignore the rumbling of my stomach as it protested against my neglect. "Well, it is quite possible that I observed incorrectly-"

"By God, that wouldn't be difficult!"

I looked at him sharply and detected a distinctly amused expression on his face. His eyes twinkled humorously in the lamplight and I realized he was baiting me.

"-however," I continued, refusing to rise to it, "I did notice that Mr. Godwin's manner with his daughter was… a trifle stern, in my opinion."

A woman darted out of a café in front of us and made her way down the street, bundled up against the cold. Holmes' eyes followed her, though he didn't appear to be really looking at her. "A trifle, indeed. But we are not here to interfere with his parenting."

"It does not upset you to see the way he orders her around?" I demanded, a tad sulkily.

"Of course it does. _Il est l' une des plus grandes douleurs j'ai jamais vues. _However, I must look to the matter at hand. I've been thinking-"

"Do not exert yourself too much," I quipped, pleased to have an opportunity to pay him back for his previous jibe. He smirked but let the remark slide. He wetted a cigarette with his lips and struck a match on the wall next to him.

"I do not think Mr. Godwin has been completely honest with me. Perhaps there is something in his past he is ashamed of, and he is fearful we will unearth it during our investigations. I've come across this type of client before."

"Perhaps you could reassure him that all your findings of a personal nature are confidential…"

"I will reassure him of nothing," Holmes replied huffily, his pride forbidding him to kowtow to any man. He fell into thought again and appeared, to any bystander, to be simply window-shopping in the small stores that we were passing. Coming to a stop before an antique store, he stared absently into the window before turning to me. "What did you remark about the window, doctor?"

"Nothing peculiar," I remarked, suspecting that I had overlooked something important.

"Did you feel it was large enough for a man to fit through?"

"Not a man of my size or even your size, but Mr. Godwin did describe the intruder as small and wiry and I suppose a man of small stature could have pushed himself through."

"And, of course, you noticed that there was no way for the mysterious prowler to climb down to the ground and we were in on the second story of the house." Holmes drew on his cigarette and waited for me to respond.

"Yes, but the snow could have cushioned any fall."

Indeed," I could have been mistaken but I thought a caught a glimpse of respect in his usually guarded eyes. "Did you notice the sound?"

"Yes. Mr. Godwin remarked that the creaking of the window awoke him."

"It was a tad faint, was it not? Do you think it could have woken a man?"

"Well, he could be a light sleeper and he did mention he was about to doze off, perhaps sleep had not claimed him fully."

Holmes nodded but looked far from satisfied. "Well, I have to admit, this case seems far more intriguing than I originally assumed. Would you like to see it to the end?"

I regarded him solemnly, "You know it is an privilege to work with you. I will see you through it for as long as I am wanted."

Holmes smiled and clapped my shoulder, "Good man! You are cut from the most reliable cloth."

"So what are we to do now?"

"There is no sincerer love than the love of food. In other words, I plan to eat."

We began walking again and I had to admit that his next step sounded most pleasant. We have forgone our midday meal and I was feeling the full effects. "Perhaps Mrs. Swanson has some kidney pie we could indulge in."

"We're in America and you still want kidney pie?" Holmes' voice was light and more than a tad teasing.

"Or whatever it is Americans are good at mixing up," I budged as we made our way quickly to the estimable Inn of Mrs. Swanson.

A wonderful warmth struck us as we entered the doors, and Mrs. Swanson strolled down to us at the sound of the bell. We shook snow from our collars as she greeted us.

I asked her hastily if there was any dinner, my manners forgotten in the face of my hunger.

"It's late, everyone else has already eaten." Her petite lips stretched into an amused smile as my friend frowned and checked his watch. I peered over his hand to see it was just after nine in the evening. At Holmes' confused expression, our hostess spread her hands and explained, "Of course, most of my guests are rather elderly and this time of night is considered ungodly to them."

"So is it correct to deduce that the kitchen is closed for the night?" the detective inquired, sounding irritatingly tolerant of the thought of sleep without dinner.

She shook her curls at us and gestured to follow her, "That would be incorrect. I still have some apple pie. I left it on the stove so it should still be warm."

"Apple pie?" Holmes remarked as we settled ourselves at the closest table to her modest kitchen. She disappeared for a moment before returning with the treasure in her hands.

"Apple pie, indeed."

"Now I know we're truly in America," I joked as she placed the top of the knife into the center of the pie, cutting carefully.

"Actually the eating of apple pie predates America, and in England apple pie recipes go back to the time of Chaucer so the term 'as American as apple pie' is misapplied for the most part. Of course, the entire saying - 'as American as _motherhood_ and apple pie' - may be metaphorical and merely suggest that the abstraction of 'America' is not just geographical, but is instead, along with motherhood and apple pie, something wholesome," the detective interrupted absently, earning a grin from Mrs. Swanson over his head.

She smiled at me. "Is the mystery solved?"

Holmes shrugged, "Mr. Godwin either wants our help or he doesn't, but he can't seem to make up his own mind."

Mrs. Swanson laughed gently, plopping a piece of the delicious smelling pie onto my companion's plate. "Sounds about right. You met Ivy?"

My companion pushed around his food for a bit. "Yes. Exceptional young lady. You know her?"

"She comes in here every once in a while. Charming girl. Such a pity…" she trailed off sadly and handed over my food, her face creased in thought.

"Actually," Holmes stated suddenly, still observing his food without touching it, "I was wondering if you could give us some information. " Our hostess looked surprised but nodded. Holmes continued, "Do you know anything about a Mr. Matthews? Mr. Godwin mentioned him."

"He's a plumber, lives about ten blocks from here. He's younger than Mr. Godwin and was recently engaged…"

"_Was _engaged?" Holmes took a bite of the pie and his eyes widened. Mrs. Swanson drew back a bit, as if afraid she had poisoned him unknowingly, and he waved a reassuring hand at her. He chewed, swallowed, and gestured to the remains of his piece with his fork, "My god, this is superb pie. My aunt in Montpellier used to make this with clovers instead of cinnamon but that was nothing compared to this - is this how all American women cook?"

She blushed. "Thank you, I used saffron."

"Really? I thought saffron -"

I put a halting hand on his wrist, "Holmes. Weren't you asking about Mr. Matthews?"

"Who? Oh. Yes, yes." He turned to Mrs. Swanson, "What did I ask you?"

"You asked about his broken engagement. And I was going to tell you about how his fiancé took her own life a few weeks back. Matthews hasn't quite recovered from it. Do you plan to talk to him?"

"Probably tomorrow." There was a trace of pity in the detective's voice, but his manner was resolute. I wondered if we should bother the man so soon after a tragedy, but decided to broach it in private.

"Now I'm going to be very American with you two and offer you a bit of coffee?" She disappeared again at my friend's acceptance and we could hear her tinkering around as we ate in silence.

"Well," she started as she reappeared next to Holmes and poured some horribly black liquid into his cup. "I'm sure you'll figure it all out in no time. This should be a trifling matter for the man who solved the Baring murders. Milk?"

"Yes, please. How did you hear of the Baring case?"

"Your fame precedes you. Didn't you know?" she teased and Holmes smiled amiably at her.

"You didn't read of it in American papers. British?"

"My friend, Mrs. Forrester, lives in London. She collects things about you." At Holmes disconcerted look, she hastily clarified, "Not in an odd way, at all. She's older and collects many things from the newspapers. She finds you interesting and thinks the Yard's obvious disinclination to credit you is amusing. She wires me occasionally and told me of it."

"It wasn't a difficult matter."

"I thought the Baring case was amazing. How did you know it was the younger brother? All the clues could have pointed to either one, but somehow you knew."

Holmes didn't seem bothered by her forwardness in the least. "The notes were written by a left-handed person," he replied, arrogance laced through his words, "The older brother was right-handed."

"You can tell what hand is used to write?"

"Every good detective should be able to." He sipped his coffee.

I watched him drink. "Holmes is always modest about his accomplishments," I explained.

He snorted, "Hardly. I don't believe in being modest, any more than I believe in bragging. It was a small matter and I don't feel any praise is deserved."

"Really, you are too modest Mr. Holmes. Even Scotland Yard could not find…"

He looked at me knowingly, "Scotland Yard cannot find Scotland Yard if they're not given directions."

I smothered a smile.

Our hostess eyed him. "You know Mr. Holmes," she started bravely, holding her coffee pot by her waist, "I get the impression that you are the type of man who assumes he has figured out the world. You look at an individual and you see his profession, his habits, his marital status and whatnot, and you believe you know everything about that person. And the fact that you are able to see what others cannot makes you feel superior. But you seem to not realize that perhaps there are other things people can see that you cannot … things that are just as important as facts and instances."

Holmes had procured a cigarette as she spoke but his eyes never left her face, his expression neutral to her dressing-down. He finally smirked, "You're entirely correct, Mrs. Swanson, but I unabashedly assure you that Scotland Yard sees nothing past their own walking sticks."

He lit his cigarette as she winked at me, "I'm sure you're correct, Mr. Holmes." Her voice was patronizing. Holmes let out a long stream of blue smoke and smiled widely at her.

"You think I'm insufferable," he stated bluntly.

"Actually, I think you're quite charming … but I suppose you could be both," she teased as she sauntered back into the kitchen, leaving Holmes grinning and myself gaping.

After downing the rest of that horrid drink and crushing his cigarette on the bottom of his well-worn shoes, Holmes and I retired to our rooms for the night. Holmes proceeded to wail around on his violin until I was obliged to step into his room and stop him, for my sake and the other guests. He was sitting cross-legged on his bed with the annoying contraption tucked lovingly under his chin. He stared at me as I stood in the doorway, glaring fiercely at him.

"Watson, you're still awake!"

I didn't dignify the absurd statement with a response and continued to eye him until he smiled in resignation. "Alright, old boy, I'll stop."

I closed the door without a word as I heard him moving about, and continued to hear him moving about until almost three in the morning.


	5. Gossip

When I entered his room a quarter after eight the next morning, he looked quite refreshed and rested with his feet unceremoniously propped up on the breakfast table. He already had his food characteristically pushed around on his plate and a cup of coffee and a cigarette almost entirely consumed. He smiled widely at me, though his eyes were darkened from lack of sleep.

"You're up late," was his first irritating statement.

I let out a scoff before I could contain myself. His smile only widened a bit before he rose and wandered to the window. "You can help yourself, old man," he told me, gesturing towards the table. I partook of a liberal amount of the eggs, rasher, and bacon, washing it down with a full glass of milk. Holmes peered out the window into the dazzling white of the snow as I ate, his face smooth and relaxed.

He frowned mockingly at me when I shuffled into my room and reached for my coats, "Really, my dear Watson, you eat as though it's been weeks since your last meal."

I walked back into his chamber, shrugging on my coat and gloves. I refused to rise to the bait and reprimand him for eating so little. I was neither his mother nor Mrs. Hudson. "Where are we to start?" I inquired.

He slipped on his own layers and straightened his tie. "I suppose it would be fruitful to speak with Mr. Matthews. I've already spoken to Mrs. Swanson and retrieved his address."

"Do you really think that he might know something about this all? Mr. Godwin's mention seemed rather offhand and, to be honest, I find it hard to believe that death threats and murder attempts would be a consequence of a little money won at a card game."

"Quite right, especially between two friends. I would hardly think that it would cause such a strain. You owe me a bit of change, Watson, but I hardly have considered murdering you."

"I owe you money?"

"Indeed." He bounded down the stairs two at a time, leaving me to rummage my mind for the reason that I owed him anything.

Once outside, we decided to walk to Mr. Matthews' flat, the daytime air cool but invigorating. I still worried about my companion's forgetfulness in bringing a hat to shield himself from the cold. His black, wavy hair was quickly acquiring a buildup of snowflakes, which he continued to shake off with a leather-gloved hand. "Do you think we should bother him so soon after his bereavement?" I inquired instead of voicing my concern.

"We will be as delicate as possible. One situation has nothing to do with the other, so I see no need to bring it up."

We meandered down the street at a leisurely stroll, watching the passerby's with an idle eye. I breathed the clean air deeply; marveling at the freshness of the wind when compared to that of London. Even in heart of the city, New York's air lacked the pungent fog that swirled around the streets and alleys of London as if dancing with the lampposts and cobblestones.

Holmes seemed to find it pleasing as well, as he abandoned his briefly inhaled cigarette in favor of the morning weather. Approximately ten blocks forward and three to the right, we reached a small cul-de-sac with less influent flats, crowded closely together and with entrances almost stepping out onto the sidewalk.

"Number six," my companion murmured under his breath as we stepped up to the door. Knocking loudly, Holmes leaned against the step's railing and cast a curious glance about the street. There was nary another soul in sight, and the houses were deadly quiet. The detective's eyes narrowed at the stillness of the environment as if it concerned him greatly. No one answered his first or second knock and he exhaled sharply and looked at me with irritation. "If I'd known that it was such a task to get people to answer their doors in America, I would've rethought my visit."

To my amazement, he reached down and stealthily turned the door-handle. It moved a bit but stopped. He twisted it back to its original position without a sound and moved down the steps backwards, staring at the window curiously. I was about to preemptively object to breaking and entering but he sighed loudly and commented that there was nothing to be done if the man was not presently at home.

"So what should we do now?"

He massaged his neck ruefully, "I suppose the best thing to do would be hang around some local pubs or restaurants and catch up on some gossip, though it is not how I imagined spending my time. Mrs. Swanson is a great source of information but, unfortunately, she does not have every piece of prattle I may need."

"Gossip, Holmes?" I asked a little incredulously; something about it seemed almost improper.

"Gossip is invaluable to me sometimes."

We had made our back to the main street, lined with rustic houses and commercial shops. My friend's face suddenly became alert and I followed his gaze to where I spotted Ms. Godwin on the sidewalk outside a small butcher shop. A burly man with a stained apron was giving her a decidedly harsh dressing down as she strained to look over his shoulder, seemingly unaffected by the man in her lovely face.

Holmes expression was tight as he crossed the street in a few swift strides. We passed by some ogling men seated at an outside cafe bundled up in dirty work clothes and laughing amongst themselves at our young friend with decidedly lecherous gestures.

"I told you to stop comin' in here!" the man was vehemently saying as we approached. Young Ivy had not noticed us yet. She seemed to ignore the man as he barked at her.

"Hey, if you've tired of her, we can take her off your hands," one man at the cafe yelled rudely but clamped his mouth shut as Holmes glared fiercely at him. He took Ivy's elbow gently, gaining her attention.

"Is there something the matter, sir?" Holmes' voice was icy and controlled. The butcher immediately lowered his tone.

"Keep her outta here," he demanded of my companion, with no concern as to who he was in relation to the young, unchaperoned lady. "She keeps coming in here, and then just stands around like she's daft or something."

"No matter what her actions, she is still a lady and deserves to be treated as such."

"Oh, piss off," the man waved dismissively and then quickly retreated back into his shop at the look on my friend's face.

"Yes, piss off," Holmes repeated under his breath, taking the young lady's arm and steering her down the street. She was gazing openly at him, her awe seemingly doubled at his gallant protection of her. We ignored the brave catcalls of a few workers who were seemingly oblivious to the danger of doing so in the presence of my companion and me.

"Hello, Ivy." Holmes hadn't let go of her, and if he had she would surely have run into a lamppost or some other obstacle.

"Mr. Holmes."

"What are you doing out here?" my friend asked her amiably.

"I was at the butcher's."

"We can see that, Ivy. What were you doing there?" I broke in. She tore her eyes away from my friend to glance at me, though it did not seem as if she truly looked at me.

"I bought paints." She had a small parcel in her hand, just long enough to hold some thin containers.

"All by yourself?" the detective asked; his hand still protectively on her elbow and his other arm about her in an effort to guide her.

"Yes."

"Are you allowed to be out all by yourself?"

She nodded, "To buy paints and flowers."

Holmes looked at her sharply, as a father might his child who had been caught running off. "Are you allowed at the butcher's?"

She bit her lip, "Mama….no, not without mama."

Holmes squeezed her arm comfortingly as I patted her back, discreetly pulling up her shawl that had fallen away from her shoulders and exposed her neck to the biting cold. I wondered why she was roving around without a more substantial coat to protect her.

"Yes, well, perhaps you should stay to where you are permitted, dear. Some places are obviously not too safe for a pretty girl like you to be unaccompanied," Holmes advised.

She smiled at him, her dimple deepening. "I am pretty." It was a cross between a statement and a question. She seemed to have completely missed the whole point of his command. "You are too." My friend's grey eyes darted to her face for a moment. She repeated, "You're pretty. . .."

I held back a chuckle at her wording but Holmes smiled at her. "Thank you."

She reached a hand up to stroke his cheek, "Papa says I'm pretty…this is what he does."

Holmes removed her hand gently, "Does he? That's very kind of him. You like your papa?"

I was tempted to reprove my friend for trying to get information from her but her expression stopped me. It was a look of strong consternation, as she seemed to battle with some inner conflict. She finally nodded jerkily.

Holmes eyed her intently for a moment, coming to a stop in front of her home. They stared at each other for a long while, Holmes with an examining eye, and the young lady with a look of such pure adoration that I was forced to look away and clear my throat.

It caught Holmes' attention, though not our dainty friend's, and he broke the contact to gesture to her front door. "Perhaps you should go inside, Ivy. And be more careful on your walks from now on."

"You will come next time?" I didn't catch her meaning, but Holmes shook his head firmly.

"No, I won't always be there Ivy."

She smiled at him conspiratorially before taking off across the street, not saying goodbye. We watched her enter the house and stood for a bit.

"Well. I suppose we should part here. The museum is open today. I believe there is an intriguing exhibit on medieval torture devices that I'm sure you'll find fascinating. I'll meet you back at the inn tonight," he informed me briskly.

"Would you like me to come with you?"

He shook some more flakes off his unruly hair and shook his head with an amused smile, "Discreet gossip-gathering is best done alone. I'm sure you'll fair fine without me."

"But you've been talking of the museum for weeks, Holmes. You can hardly expect me to go without you!"

He gazed up at Ivy's house a second before hailing a cab with a swift flick of his wrist. "I don't think my plans for that are going to work out, but there's no need for you sit around bored." He hustled me into the cab and told the driver where to go. "It's a short ride, and I'm sure you'll have a wonderful time. Please let me know what the exhibit was like."

I felt a pang of guilt; medieval torture devices were just the sorts of the thing to intrigue my friend and I felt horrid at the thought of going without him. I tried to get out of the hansom cab, "Surely I can walk, Holmes." I wanted the opportunity to convince him to let me go with him or wait to see the museum and the sights once the case was solved. He shoved me firmly back into the seat.

"Nonsense. You've been on your feet all day and surely the cold is hurting your wound."

I grimaced at how well he knew me as he slapped the side of the cab and signaled the driver to be on his way. I sighed and decided to try to enjoy my solitude for the day.

After doing some shopping and finding a (probably unsuitable) gift for Holmes for Christmas day, I trudged back to the inn despite my protesting leg and fell onto my bed for a mid-afternoon nap, hoping I could sleep the day away until Holmes arrived and provided me with some interesting information.

I woke unexpectedly around four in the afternoon. I lay for a bit, staring out of my ice covered window before hearing some movement from Holmes room, which was obviously what had roused me.

I sprang out of bed and swung open our conjoining door without knocking, startling Holmes who was just removing his waistcoat. He glared at me for a moment and I could immediately tell that the relatively happy man from this morning had now been replaced by that sour, snippy man that occasionally reared himself. There were lines around his eyes. I knew I needed to tread carefully.

"Why are you here?" he snapped.

"I took a nap," I replied neutrally, trying to appear as if I didn't notice his black mood.

"Did you go to the museum?" He threw his discarded garment onto the bed and fairly ripped off his shoes.

"Yes….are you alright?"

"Quite." He took off his shirt and began rooting around in his suitcase, which was still unpacked completely.

"Did you get your gossip?"

"Did I? Damn place is full of it. The problem is sorting through it all - from blatantly exaggerated maid's scandals to dull stories about the size and quality of the late Mrs. Godwin's bristols." His voice had calmed a bit, though his movements were still rough and irritated.

"Anything useful?"

He paused in his endeavor and took a breath, "I learned a bit about Mr. Matthews and his fiancée and quite a lot about our solicitor."

"Would you care to share?"

He gave up his search to grab a cigarette. As he lit it, I snagged a robe from my room and gave it to him. He slipped it on without acknowledgment. "Some pub frequenter's were very eager to share with me the details of Mr. Matthews loss. Seems his young fiance who also happened to be a friend of Mr. Godwin's late wife, was extremely happy until the week of…the tragedy. About a fortnight ago, the locals say she suddenly became depressed, distant with her beau and generally seemed to be a distressed woman. It would also seem that Mr. Matthews did not endeavor at all to find her the help necessary, not would he speak of her problems with anyone. After she took her life, he and Mr. Godwin also ceased speaking to each other on friendly terms, though no one knows why."

"Perhaps Mr. Matthews was merely grieving."

"He only distanced himself from Mr. Godwin. But I am not sure how this is connected. It's frustrating beyond belief."

"What did you learn of Mr. Godwin?"

He inhaled deeply on his cigarette and exhaled slowly, "Many things…none pleasant. Seems the general consensus of our employer is that he is an ogre of a man who has no qualms about touting himself about on any occasion, treating any he doesn't care for with nothing less than contempt, and, according to a man intimately connecting the to shy housemaid we met, spends most of his time shouting and stomping about his house."

I gasped, "Shouting at Ivy?"

Holmes sneered, "Who else?"

"Anything else?"

"Some gossip is even uglier than this, but I won't repeat it. It seems that most agree that they have seen him enter a house on 4th avenue, a seedier street that houses many common loafers and people of poorer status. What he does there, many would not admit to knowing."

"Do you plan to go there?"

He shrugged, "Perhaps tomorrow." Flinging his cigarette outside into the snow and slamming the window shut with a loud thud of dissatisfaction, he peeled off the robe and sat on the edge of the bed. "Right now, I need to sleep," he waved me away and I retired back to my chamber as he sprawled out onto his coverlet, seemingly unaware of the briskness even indoors.

Now that I was awake and Holmes asleep, I entertained myself with an early dinner.


	6. Pembry and Leach

Pembry and Leach

I did not see him for the rest of the day, though I had at least expected him to rise for a late dinner. He slept through the evening and the night, and as I rose at a quarter to eight the next morning, all was still behind his door.

I opted to receive my breakfast in the dining area so that Mrs. Swanson would not be obliged to carry a tray to my room. There was a good deal of elderly couples already seated and well into their first meals when I arrived.

I bowed to Mrs. Swanson as I slid into a comfortable chair at a table fitted for two. She smiled prettily to me as she approached from where she had been serving two gentlemen some coffee, the pot held in one hand and a porcelain carafe in the other.

"You're up early, doctor."

"I was woken by a wonderful smell. I suppose it was your cooking?" I flattered.

She snorted drolly as no English woman would. "Thank you, you're too kind. Would you care for some coffee?"

I acquiesced though I didn't really have a taste for it; it was more Holmes's cup of tea…or coffee, as it were.

"Milk?"

I nodded eagerly, hoping to perhaps drown the flavor in the thick richness of the diary. I noticed a large stack of papers on the corner table. I asked to see the New York Times.

She glanced over her shoulder, "Oh, I only have yesterday's Times. Is that alright?"

"Of course, I haven't looked at a paper in days."

She disappeared into the kitchen to unburden herself of her pots and grabbed a paper for me on her way back. She settled it down next to my coffee cup and clasped her feminine hands in front of her, where they nearly disappeared into a fold of her modest dove-grey dress. "Do you want some breakfast?"

I folded the paper and gave her my attention, "What do you have available?"

"We have eggs," she enumerated on her fingers, "rashers, bacon, pancakes - with or without honey - fresh fruit, milk, and orange juice."

"Some pancakes and fresh fruit, please."

She wandered off to fix my plate, stopping to speak to an aged lady on her way. I regarded the headline of the paper:

**Police Corruption Uncovered; Ties to Mob**

I was halfway through the article when she bustled back into the dining room, sliding a plate of rashers onto a table on the other side of the room. She bent down and spoke into the ear of her lodger before making her way to me with a plate of pancakes and a bowl of fruit.

"Is Mr. Holmes awake?" she inquired as she placed my food in front of me, applying a liberal amount of butter and honey at my request.

"I don't believe he is up."

"Mmmm…he seemed troubled when he returned yesterday."

"I apologize, he can be a bit abrupt when he is in a mood."

She shook her curls at me, "Oh no, he wasn't abrupt at all. He was quite the gentleman, but he did seem quiet…though I don't know him well enough to assume anything from it," she amended.

I didn't wish to speak of my companion and his, at times, unsociable behavior. I lifted the paper and gestured to the headline, "Seems your lovely town has a bit of trouble with the law enforcement."

She furrowed her brow in consternation, "Regrettably, it is quite common to hear of such things." She lowered her voice, "The police are easily persuaded with money, it seems. It's becoming quite an epidemic though no one knows what to do about it. Gone so far as politics now." Her tone lowered even more so, "They even sell police captaincies, and some criminals pay tithes to officials." She seemed to remember herself and straightened, "Of course, that is not all the police and our little town here is full of very moral people, I assure you. But it is very distressing to see those upholding the law turning their cheek to it, or even disregarding it."

"Endues _fedelis ad mortem_ with a bit of a hypocritical ring, doesn't it?" stated a familiar voice behind us. Mrs. Swanson turned straight into the chest of my companion, who had snuck up on us unawares as we had been conversing.

"Depends on who you're pledging to be faithful to, Mr. Holmes," she countered smartly. Holmes quirked and appreciative eyebrow at her as she stepped back and gestured to the chair opposite me. "How are you this morning, sir?"

He slid a bit clumsily into his chair. "Very well. Quite refreshed, I assure you."

"Breakfast?"

He examined my half-eaten food and then shrugged, 'I suppose. Just fruit. And some tea…" he added as she began to walk away.

"I have some with a hint of vanilla."

"Sounds _absolutely _lovely, and some milk?"

America was doing strange things to Holmes - he hated flavored tea. I thought it sounded quite good. I cast a forlorn glance at my cup of liquid poison.

Holmes felt his coat pocket for his cigarette case but our dainty proprietor stopped him before he could retrieve it. "I'd prefer if you didn't do that." She softened the curtness in her voice when he looked startled, "My elderly lodgers aren't very tolerant to the fumes, I would hate to have one of them expire on me."

Holmes grinned at the brassy joke. He tapped his fingertips on the tabletop after she left; his usual substitute for his tobacco.

I watched her depart, "She's quite becoming," I observed.

Holmes rolled his eyes, "Are there any of the fairer sex that you do not think are becoming?"

"Unfortunately, quite a few."

He allowed himself a genuine laugh. "I doubt it."

He procured my untouched cup of coffee and sipped at it contentedly. "Do you feel up to a visit to the den of corruption, Watson?" He motioned to my paper.

"What do you wish to speak to the police about?""The death of Mr. Matthews' fiancée and anything else that may be relative to our client. Then I thought it would be prudent to try at another visit to Mr. Mathews himself."

Mrs. Swanson had returned and looked very perplexed to see Holmes drinking my coffee. She reached to turn his empty cup over, pouring the wonderful smelling liquid into it and settled it down onto its saucer. She glanced between us. Holmes gestured to give the tea to me, "That's for Watson, because he doesn't know how to speak up and say what he really wants."

She smiled and skated the cup and saucer over closer to my side. I balked at Holmes, embarrassed by his words.

"Holmes!"

"Watson!" he mimicked.

I sighed and squeezed my eyes shut. "Don't speak for me," I finally managed to get out between clenched teeth.

He grinned at me over the rim of, what was once, my cup. "You hate coffee, old man, why didn't you say so?"

"Perhaps I wanted coffee?" I replied stubbornly.

Mrs. Swanson stopped us before we could get into a war of words, which surely would have ended with me waving a white flag in defeat. "If you go to the police station, there is a young man there who used to patrol this street until he became a detective. He would probably be more than willing to help you. Officer Pembry, or, excuse me, Detective Pembry."

"And he can be trusted?" Holmes asked, almost mischievously. As disturbing as it was to know that those upholding the law were just as crooked as those defying it, Holmes seemed to find it exciting, if the glimmer in his eye was any indication.

"I would hope so…he's my nephew."

The precinct on Elizabeth Street was busy when we entered. Officers, or "coppers" as Holmes liked to say - repeatedly and stubbornly, just to see if he could annoy me - bustled around us as if we weren't there for a couple of minutes before a young man stopped and inquired if we needed anything.

"We were simply wondering if we could talk to a superior, if its not too much trouble?" Holmes requested.

"You're not here because of a crime?" the young chap asked brusquely.

Holmes seemed startled by the curt manner for a moment, "No, just some information…"

"Wait here."

He left us and, I have no doubt, forgot all about us as soon as we were out of sight. Holmes leaned against one of the desks and launched into one of his lectures on the history of the police in New York. He was halfway through a discourse on the The Rattle Watch and the Dutch era when someone deigned to acknowledge us once more.

"Hello there, I'm Detective Pembry. Do you need some help, sirs?" He was a young as well, though his eyes held a glint of wisdom and common sense that the other officer's lacked. They reminded me a great deal of his aunt's. He was a dirty blonde with blue eyes and a wide smile. He seemed pleasant as he shook our hands. When we introduced ourselves, his mouth fell open in shock.

"_The_ Sherlock Holmes?" he asked.

Holmes flushed up at the term, "The only one I know of," he brushed off dryly. "This is my acquaintance Dr. John Watson. We were just wondering if we could ask some questions about the death of Violet Dubois."

The man's eyes clouded over, "Ah. Matthews' girl. What do you need to know?"

"Just the particulars, if it's not presumptuous of us."

He waved us into a corner, where he seated us around a cluttered desk. The activity buzzed about us. "Its not," he assured, "it wasn't a crime so I can tell you a few things. It would just be between us, of course."

"Oh, of course," Holmes reassured, his voice flowing over with sincerity, which I knew meant he was actually being quite insincere.

"Could I ask, though, why you're inquiring into it?" Pembry asked.

"I'd rather not say. We're lodging at your aunt's Inn and she told us we could rely on you for anything we needed."

He looked flustered at Holmes's lack of information but flattered that his name had been bandied around with such trust, even if it was his aunt who had done the bandying. "You're staying at auntie Kitty's? She must be delighted; she's been a follower of yours for some time," he informed Holmes, who looked surprised at the confidence, "As have I." He pushed his blonde hair back from his eyes and took a breath, "Ms. Dubois…let's see, we found her at home after Matthews told us he hadn't seen her in a few days. She was in the bathtub with her wrist slit open." He frowned, "Such a shame since she was a lovely girl, at least, I heard. I didn't know her before."

Holmes leaned forward, his elbows on his knees and his hands clasped together. "And you are positive that it was-"

"Self-inflicted?" The man caught on quickly. "Indeed. There were hesitation marks on her wrists and the house was completely locked up; we had to force our way in. It wasn't possible for anyone to have left the house, unless they could find someway to lock up behind them from outside."

"Were both of her wrists slit?"

"No sir, just one. She probably didn't have enough strength to do both, and one was sufficient enough for what she wanted done."

Holmes fell into thought as young Pembry and I waited patiently. "She was a friend of the late Mrs. Godwin?"

"Yes, she was very upset after Mrs. Godwin's murder."

"Murder?" Holmes pressed.

"Yes. About two years ago she was shot by someone in the Park."

"Tell me about it." Holmes eyes fairly glowed with excitement.

"It was the middle of the night when Mr. Godwin came in. He told us that his wife had been shot by, what he claimed, was her lover at a rendezvous outside their house, just a little into the Park. Godwin said that he got wind that something was amiss and followed her there. She and her 'friend' had a bit of a tiff and he pulled out a handgun and unloaded a shot into her, point-blank. Mr. Godwin then shot at the murderer and got him in the leg as he ran. She was dead when we got to her, and we haven't had any luck in finding the man."

"Did you follow a blood trail?"

"We did, but it tapered off eventually."

"What else was done to apprehend him?"

The young man cast a glance around nervously and leaned toward us to whisper. I could barely hear him above the sounds of the station. "Well, that's just it, sir. At that time, I hadn't been here for too long, so it wasn't my investigation, but it did seem to be handled very badly. That was one thing that Violet Dubois had an issue with. She came in here once a few days after it happened and demanded that more be done; she felt the investigation had been halfhearted, which it had been. After Godwin gave his story and the scene was looked at, not much else was done. I wasn't here when Ms. Dubois came in, but it was talked about for some time after; became a bit of a humorous story to some who felt she had overstepped her bounds as a lady."

"Why do you think the case was disregarded so?"

Pembry sighed, "Mr. Godwin's story brought to light that Mrs. Godwin had been…behaving inappropriately. I hate to say it, but I think a lot of the officers felt she got what she deserved."

"But it was never proved that it was her lover, was it? It could have been anyone."

Pembry nodded, "I know that, Mr. Holmes. It bothered me, to say the least. There was also the matter of friendship, Mr. Godwin is good friends with the Detective that handled the case, Leach, and I suppose whatever Godwin said was gospel…" he trailed off and looked over our heads. Straightening considerably, he nodded at the officer that had appeared behind us.

Holmes and I stood and extended our hands; they were ignored.

The officer, a wizened old man, though spry, glared at us. "Can I help you gentleman?"

"I don't believe so, Detective Pembry was assisting admirably," Holmes replied evenly.

"About what?"

"Nothing of importance. My name is Sherlock Holmes and this is my associate Dr. Watson."

The man smirked, "Your associate? Are you a professional or something?"

"I'm a detective myself, though a private one."

"You mean unemployed?"

"Most of the time," Holmes replied good-naturedly, ignoring the insult. "We won't bother you any longer, though, Detective…"

"Leach. And if you wish to talk about something, you may do so with me. This is my precinct and I'd appreciate it if you didn't distract my men with trifles. They do have work to do."

Holmes didn't offer his hand again, but merely nodded at the man and turned to leave. "Thank you, Detective Pembry, I apologize for taking up your time."

"It was no trouble gentlemen. In fact, it was a pleasure to meet you Mr. Holmes," the younger man responded enthusiastically, "It's not everyday you meet the greatest detective in the known world." The exaggerated compliment served its purpose - the disagreeable official behind us snorted at it, rankled.

We left.


	7. Matthews

Matthews

As soon as we were on the walk outside, Holmes pronounced that another endeavor to visit Mr. Matthews would be fruitful and soon we were ensconced in a chilly four-wheeler back to his shabby flat.

As we bumped our way down the frosty roads, I asked him what he thought of our encounter at the station house.

"I have to admit that Ms. DuBois's death is certainly intriguing me, as is Mrs. Godwin's, though no one seems to have any information on it."

The four-wheeler bumped jerkily, catching him off guard and almost knocking him over. I grabbed the seat in time and stifled the urge to laugh at the cross look that came over his face at his own inelegance.

"I don't quite understand how it might be connected to the case we're working on now," I commented as he righted himself, smoothing his vest and adjusting his scarf.

"There may be no connection, but then there may be. I just wish to be well informed on this stint, as the Americans say, and you have to admit that it all seems rather interesting. One cannot deny that it is just as engrossing as any of the great Greek tragedies. It shares some characteristics; betrayal, murder, infidelity, suicide, _hubris_," he whispered conspiratorially, a youthful gleam in his eyes.

I laughed at his enthusiasm, "I think you may be reaching a bit for a comparison, my dear man."

"Mmmmm..." he murmured, his smile waning significantly enough for me to feel a small pang of guilt at my words. "Regardless, I find it interesting. And Ivy seems to wish me to look into it."

"You think so?"

"Yes. Her request is just as valid as anyone else's," he replied defensively. I had not implied that I thought otherwise.

"Of course," I replied passively, not desiring to dampen his spirits.

"Besides," he started as he patted around for his cigarettes, "I never cared much for the Greek tragedies anyhow," he offered. "Whatever understanding of human behavior and emotions Sophocles, Euripides, and Peschylus may have possessed was completely belied by their insistent reliance on 'deus ex machina' and 'catharsis', neither of which commonly, or ever, occur in our real world, even proceeding a tragedy. Shakespeare did the art so much more justice, even if his work smacked of melodrama."

I suddenly remembered that I had drawn up a list after a fortnight of rooming with him and had quite presumptuously marked his knowledge of literature as nil.

"You enjoy Shakespeare, Holmes?" I asked, accepting a proffered cigarette from him.

"Mmmhmmm," he murmured, striking a match for me, "I've read his work many times, acted in it a few times, and even saw a show once - surprisingly, I prefer reading it to seeing it. Though my disinterest may be due to the fact that I remember not one iota of the play I saw. 'Coriolanus', I believe it was. I was 25 . . . and a bit inebriated. I have a vague recollection of my brother removing me from the theatre." From the look on his face, I suspected this was actually a fond memory.

I stared at him in disbelief for a long time. Finally, I simply shook my head and decided to change the subject, "So what did you think of Pembry and Leach?"

"Leach will be trouble. I thought I had a deuced time dealing with Lestrade but at least he can admit I'm more perceptive than him, even if it is only when we are alone." He fiddled with his silver case, engraved with his initials, "And Pembry seems wholly trustworthy just as his aunt is...well," he found his packet of matches, "at least, as trustworthy as a woman is capable of being."

"Holmes!"

"Watson!"

I held out an upturned hand, "Would you, please, stop doing that?"

"If you promise to stop exclaiming my name in such a shrill way," he riposted, "I mean, really, Watson, if I wanted to hear that, I'd have married a long time ago."

"You're being insulting to women. . . You do realize when you're being insulting, don't you, Holmes? Or are you really this oblivious?"

He began preparing his cigarette, unflustered by my reprimand. "I am merely speaking the truth," he stated without looking up at me, "I mean no insult by it."

"Don't you?" I exclaimed.

"No." He shook his head at me. "Being capable of deviousness also implies being capable of thought. I believe women have much more active and strong minds then our gender is willing to allow. When a mind is stifled and oppressed, not permitted to flourish and work in the way it is naturally inclined, then it must find other outlets...ones more subtle. So you see, by accusing them of deviousness, I am paying them a much higher compliment than most, who merely accuse them of ignorance and feebleness."

"That's very kind of you," I replied sarcastically.

He wetted the paper of his cigarette and rolled it tightly, "Can you deny, Watson," he regarded me as he rubbed his stubbled chin with a long calloused finger, "that if we were reduced to finding stimulation in painting, singing, and generally flittering about like children without a thought in our heads, we wouldn't strive to find some way to work our minds? Even if we had to do so with schemes so as not to appear to be rallying against or accepted roles? And thus become clever and devious?" He smiled at me as if I had just imparted some long held secret to me. "So, I am merely providing the fairer sex with a valid excuse for their behavior. And I'm sure it helps them plenty that with a little flash of décolletage, most men fall arse over elbow for any pretty thing that passes by their window. After that, they are free to scheme and plot until their ruses, or their dainty figures, begin to fall to pieces."

"And what of their nagging?" I asked, noticing he'd failed to justify his comments on that point.

"Oh," he nodded, "yes, that is very unpleasant."

"No, no. How are you not being insulting when you refer to them as nags?"

"I didn't call them nags."

"You said -"

"I said that if I married, my wife would scold me often. This would have nothing to do with her being a woman, so much as it would have to do with her residing with _me_. This is evidenced by the fact that you nag me all the time - and you're not even a woman."

I glared. "Nice of you to notice. And I don't nag you. I could, though. Would you like that? Cause I think you'd love it."

He smiled, "I quite enjoy this side of you, Watson. Very energetic. Plus, I realize you're tired, so I can forgive you for how contrary you're being."

"I'm being contrary?"

"Yes," he answered, as if it were obvious.

"Fine. I am. And I am tired, extremely so, since you kept me up until all hours with your music, or whatever you wish to call it. So please forgive me since I'm _tired. _But, tell me," I smiled, "what's your excuse?"

He looked a little affronted at my criticism of his musical talent, which was a bit of a low blow, but he deserved it. He lit his smoke and inhaled, "No need to get snippy. You shouldn't get so worked up over what I think..." He exhaled and smiled, "I won't stand in your way when you become affianced to some lady, even if she's the most devious and nagging woman in all of London."

I laughed, "I wouldn't have it any other way," I assured. "It's preferable to being bored. I suppose that may be why I enjoy your company so much."

He laughed as well.

"Besides," I continued, "I don't nag you. If I were to nag you it would sound a bit like '_Oh, Mr. Holmes_," I raised my voice to a high falsetto, putting my hands on my hips the best I could in the crowded cab, "_you didn't touch your tea! Are you trying to starve yourself?!? Oh, Mr. Holmes, this place is such a mess!_'" I lowered my hands back to my lap and smiled, "See? I'm sure you can tell the difference."

Holmes stared, wide eyed and, apparently, pleasantly shocked. He looked like a kid on Christmas who'd just been given the very toy he'd always wanted.

"Watson," he started, slowly and suspiciously, "was that supposed to be our estimable and lovely landlady?"

I shrugged, regretting my joke but still tickled by my own boldness.

Holmes began laughing, silently and unrestrained. After a moment, I joined him.

"My god, man, you are a bit of blackguard in saint's clothing aren't you? Is that halo detachable after all?"

I shrugged again, twirling my hat around in my hands. Holmes fell silent, though occasionally a small laugh would bubble forth as he apparently continued to get a chuckle out of my impertinence.

After a while, I cleared my throat, still playing with my hat, though now a bit nervously.

"I trust," I cleared my throat again, "that you won't repeat that when we return to London. . ."

That sent him laughing again for a long time. Finally, after he'd calmed a bit, he looked out of the frost veiled window before pointing his cigarette at me lazily and giving me a sincere look. "May I confess something to you?"

"I suppose..." I permitted a little hesitantly. From my experience, sentences that started with those words were rarely the ones you wished to hear.

"When I first met you, I thought you an infinitely dull chap."

"Oh..."

"But," he cut me off before I could think of anything to say, "now I see that, although you can be quite _decorous _and a little unobservant, you have a particular sharpness about you that I suspect will keep me on my toes."

With that backhanded compliment, we rattled to a stop at the corner near our destination and disembarked, making our way up to Mr. Matthews flat. This time the door was slightly ajar, indicating that our quarry was at home. Holmes bounded up the steps, his heavy boots sinking and crunching into the snow and ice. He held the handle in one hand as he knocked softly.

"Decorous," I mumbled, "Anyone seems decorous compared you, Holmes. Just because I keep my hair in order and like to show some tact and discretion when speaking to others-"

Footsteps approaching the door interrupted my tirade.

Holmes, for his part, gave me a smile that was entirely inscrutable.

The door squeaked open, revealing a man who appeared to be about five-and-thirty. He stared at us with sleepy eyes and an irritated air. "What do you want?" My companion raised his eyebrows at the abrupt manner, keeping silent until the man tempered his tone, "Pardon me, how may I help you?" he reworded, looking more resigned than aggravated.

"My name is Sherlock Holmes and this is my friend Dr. John Watson," the detective introduced amiably, gesturing to me over his shoulder with a wet, black glove.

"How do you do? Mr. Daniel Matthews," he said quietly as he extended his cold hand and shook ours limply. "Why does your name sound so familiar?" he asked suddenly, still holding my companion's hand in his own..

Holmes gave an exaggerated shrug, "I haven't a clue. Your friend Mr. Godwin invited us here to look into a trifling matter for him."

Mr. Matthews leaned against the doorframe, narrowing his eyes and appraising us, his dark head at an odd angle. "Godwin?" He pursed his lips and exhaled hard, "So why do you need to talk to me?"

Holmes glanced pointedly at the inside of the house but no invitation seemed forthcoming. He smiled again, not at all perturbed by our icy reception, "Mr. Godwin is under the belief that someone intends harm to his person...I was wondering if you might have anything to aid us find out what could be happening?"

Mr. Matthews' lip sneered up in disgust for a moment before he caught himself and shook his head. "I don't know anything." The door creaked as he started to close it but stopped suddenly as he regarded my friend, "But I suppose slamming this door in your nosy face will only rouse your suspicions and force you to root around behind my back into all my personal affairs..."

Holmes laughed heartily, something he did rarely. "'Rooting' is such a vulgar term." His tone and the twinkle in his eye informed me that it was exactly what he intended to do, whether the door was slammed or not. "I merely wish to speak to you for a moment. It's been my experience that many times individuals know a great deal that they simply aren't aware that they know."

The man in the doorway stared at my friend in annoyed disbelief before scrunching his face up. "Regardless of whatever it is you're trying to say, I assure you I know nothing about it. But you can come in." He moved aside finally, palm outstretched in invitation.

"Thank you."

We bustled in, though there wasn't much room to move around. The space was crowded and small, with half packed bags strewn about and cloths covering most of the furnishing. Holmes cast a glance about as he tugged off his gloves and loosed his scarf. Seats were cleared for us on the small divan across from a threadbare high-backed seat that looked as though it had been in use for decades.

We arranged ourselves on the sofa, the cramped space preventing us from crossing our legs or getting comfortable in the least. We were offered neither coffee or tea.

"So," Holmes began, "how long have you known Mr. Godwin?"

The man opposite us reached around his back and pulled out a flat silver cigarette case from his pants. He fiddled with the latch a bit, "I got into some legal issues with my brother over my father's will about 10 years ago. Mr. Godwin helped me sort some things out."

"Really?" Holmes asked, "Was he a capable lawyer?"

Mr. Matthews snorted, "Usually, but not for me." He lifted his chin to gesture to his surroundings, a cynical look on his face as he drew out attention to his dilapidated flat.

"I'm sorry," Holmes responded sympathetically but curtly. "But you remained friend's?"

"More like acquaintances," he corrected. "But when I met my fiancé I discovered that she was friends with his wife and so, consequently, we spent more time together."

Holmes stood and wandered to the small hearth, examining the few pictures that adorned the mantle. "Your fiancé?" he inquired, stopping at a small cabinet photo of a delicate looking girl, with almost elfin features and soft hair the color of sun-kissed wheat. "May I inquire as to the date?"

"No, because there will not be one."

"May I ask why?"

"She's dead," was the blunt answer, "killed herself."

Holmes turned his back to him, staring at the photo still. "I'm sorry. She was very beautiful."

I could see the small, forlorn smile that graced our host's face, though Holmes could not. "It wasn't her appearance that caught my eye. She is...was...beautiful but there are plenty of dainty women about. I didn't love her for her appearance."

Holmes still didn't turn but now he fingered the picture without permission. "So what did catch your eye?" he asked softly, showing a delicacy that was unexpected in this situation.

"I went to buy flowers for my mother's grave -she'd died of consumption the year before- and I ventured into the flower shop where she worked."

"She worked?" I asked, breaking my silence.

"She was an orphan. She came from France when she was 20 and worked as a governess for the Godwin's girl until Mr. Godwin decided he didn't want an 'intruder' in his house any longer. Then she went to work in the flower shop and I met her years after." His voice took on a pitiful tone, "She spent over an hour assisting me to find the perfect flowers for my mother's grave...she understood why it was so important." His voice broke loudly, "We were going to be married in a week." He sucked in a breath and visibly reigned himself in.

Holmes's shoulders twitched as he shifted his weight uncomfortably from one foot to the other, obviously discomfited by the man's emotional state. "What flowers did you purchase?"

"Yellow irises."

"Irises symbolize death and yellow symbolizes peace...so a peaceful death. Correct?" Holmes guessed.

"Yes, she..." Mr. Matthews inhaled deeply and stared at my companion's back. "But this isn't what you came here for. What's happening to Godwin?"

Holmes resumed his seat, and took out his own cigarette case. "Have you not spoken to him?"

"Not for a week or so...I've been occupied."

Holmes ignored the brusque reply, "He's been receiving letters of a threatening nature."

To my surprise, Mr. Matthews threw his head back and laughed loudly. Holmes glanced at me out of the corner of his eye.

"Well," our host started once he'd ceased laughing, "I haven't heard anything about that."

"Do you know someone who may wish to harm him?"

Mr. Matthews took a drag of his cigarette and shook his head, almost bemused, "Not someone who would go through the trifling effort of sending letters beforehand."

"Are you implying that you do know of someone who may wish to harm him?" Holmes's face grew alert as he examined the man across from him.

"We all have enemies, some greater than others, depending on what we've stirred up or whose lives we've disrupted," he replied obliquely.

Holmes smiled enigmatically, "Or who you may owe money to..."

A mystified look settled itself onto Mr. Matthews face and didn't appear to be leaving, "I realize that you are attempting to allude to something but I confess that I have no idea what it could be," he stated slowly, obviously doubting my friend's sanity or intelligence or both.

Holmes frowned and then made a grunting noise that only I could hear. Shaking himself from his thoughts, he took a glance around the room once more and nodded to the bags and boxes, "You say you were to be married in a week...were you planning on moving house?"

"We were going to go back to France, to a lovely place in Nice, where she was born and grew up."

Holmes leveled a curious look onto him, "Are you not employed here?"

"I think I can manage my own finances Mr. Holmes." The reply was icy and offended, understandably.

Holmes stood and I followed his cue, "I didn't mean to offend, I am inquisitive by nature...it is a part of my work."

We bid him adieu, feeling that we had overstayed our welcome and soon found ourselves strolling back near Manchester Street and, hopefully, lunch.

"Very interesting," Holmes commented as he smiled at a young woman passing by, which caused her to blush in confusion and mistaken interest. I could tell it amused him but he smiled wider at her as she looked back at him over her shoulder.

"Was it?" I asked as I observed their interplay and wondered if Holmes was being a little untruthful about his disinclination towards the fairer sex.

"There was a few points of interest."

"Such as?"

His face grew pensive."The most prominent one would be his financial status. He is obviously a poor man, yet he was planning to marry."

I smiled, "Holmes...poor men marry often."

"Indeed. And I would have thought nothing of it if he hadn't mentioned that he was planning to move to 'a lovely place in Nice'. I could tell that he had not worked in quite a while...it seems unlikely that it would be that simple to leave."

"There could be many explanations," I reasoned.

"True," Holmes agreed and felt on his vest for his watch, which he had failed to attach. "What time is it?"

I glanced at my own, "A quarter past two."

"Forgive me, I forget that you are not used to these all day wanderings as I am."

'I am enjoying myself immensely," I reassured, worried that he was going to send me away again.

"But you still must be hungry. Let's find a cozy place with a pleasant repast."

"And then?" I asked as he steered us to an adjacent corner and turned onto another street, obviously aware of his surroundings.

"There is a mysterious address on 4th Street that I desire to investigate."

"Holmes..." I stopped and he did as well a few feet ahead of me. "What are we doing?" As far as I could discern, we were simply following tracks that didn't necessarily lead anywhere near this case.

He crossed his arms, "I do not entirely trust our client and I do not think he is presenting himself or this matter accurately."

He had no real reason to believe this. I couldn't help the teasing tone that crept into my voice, "Trusting your intuition, Holmes?"

"I employ it at times, especially in analyzing the inner workings of my fellow man," he ignored my bait and answered calmly.

"So we're investigating the complainant instead of the complaint?"

"Sometimes it's the only way to conduct an investigation," he informed me as we stepped into a warm café.


	8. 4th Street

4th Street

Fourth Street was unlike anything I had experienced before. Lined with ramshackle groups of wooden shanties, and pavilions serving beer, it was apparently the center for every vice. We passed by fleabag hotels, cabaret shows and houses of ill-repute on our journey to Holmes address.

On our way, he enlightened me on the history of the Ocean View Walk, where planks had been set down over a rough alley in order to allow customers to reach the Surf Theater easily between Surf Avenue and the ocean and explained to me that, because of the entrepreneurial spirit of Coney Island, many hotels had been built not just to house tourists but to be attractions in and of themselves, such as the Elephant Hotel which, to me, was the most garish and extravagant structure ever built. The whole street was a strange mix; children running to 6th Avenue to Balmer's Pavillion, as well as drunken louts engaging in three card monte.

"The Native American dwellers called the island _Narrioch_ or 'land without shadows', because its compass orientation keeps the beach area in sunlight all day," Holmes explained, "The generally accepted source is from _coney_, an obsolete English word for rabbit. It was chosen because because, similar to other Long Island barrier islands, Coney Island was virtually overrun with rabbits."

The address we were searching for was located in the middle of 4th and was reached by a battered door in the alley. An ornate sign hung above the entryway announcing that we were at "Lena's House", it's letters scrawled out in elegant green calligraphy. The outside of the establishment was run-down, to put it mildly, and a few men who were obviously sleeping off their inebriation were laid out in the alley by the trash cans.

Holmes ignored them and rapped on the door. A mere second later we were ushered quickly into the house without a word by a young girl with red hair and a pretty face, though her eyes were disturbingly vacant.

"Hello, sirs," she greeted as she procured our coats without permission. It took a moment for me to absorb our new surroundings, for, despite the shabbiness of the outside, the interior of the place was lavish and expensive. Paintings of half-clad women hung on the walls and the furnishings were opulent to the point of gaudiness. Everything seemed intended to catch your eye or stimulate the senses.

The young girl eyed us openly, a smile that I was sure was supposed to be seductive or beguiling, gracing her hollow features. She wore nothing but a shift, which made me indescribably uncomfortable. I am embarrassed to admit that it was only at this time that the nature of the establishment occurred to me. It should be defended, however, that though I had traveled much in my war career, I had never ventured into one of these houses even as the other soldiers did often. And perhaps I was more than a little surprised that Holmes had willingly and knowingly brought me into such a den of iniquity.

I started to tug on his arm to inform him of our whereabouts, though I knew he already knew, but he cast me an impatient glance and turned his attention back to our hostess.

"What can we do you for, sirs?" she asked, obviously assuming we were here to partake of their various services.

Holmes smiled, though I could see it was forced, "We would like to speak to the proprietor of this fine . . . _establishment_."

She cocked her crimson head at us, her tempting smile still firmly in place as if it was the only thing she knew. "I assure you that I can arrange whatever it is you desire..."

"What I desire is to speak to the proprietor," Holmes responded smoothly.

The girls face tightened, though she continued to smile. I sensed that Holmes was flustering her. "We have many girls here, you may even look at them first if you are particular. I can arrange everything, there is not reason to bother the Missus..."

"That's quite alright, Kate, I'll see the gentlemen." We looked up to see a handsome woman of 50 standing on the staircase, her gown cut unfortunately low and tightened in the usual style for a person of her profession. She was not particularly beautiful, but she carried herself tall and confidently. Her voice was warm and lilting.

Kate scampered off, looking positively relieved to escape.

The woman, apparently the owner of the business, regarded us with chilly blue eyes. "Good afternoon. I'm Mrs. Elizabeth Jeffries and I welcome you to my place. It's not often my attention is insisted upon and I must warn you that I charge more for being imposed upon."

Holmes bowed slightly, keeping his eye trained on the woman as if he didn't trust her out of his sight. "My name is Sherlock Holmes and this is my colleague John Watson. I am a private consulting detective-"

"Abigail, stop that this instant!" she cut my friend off, addressing someone behind us. I turned in time to see a young girl scurrying back into a room after, obviously, being caught doing something behind our backs. When we turned our attention back to the lady in front of us, we noticed that many girls had wandered to watch us over the banister, most in disarray and states of undress. I felt myself blushing again, not used to be subjected to such blatant scrutiny by women. Holmes didn't react and beyond a gentle shift from one foot to the other, didn't appear to notice the attention at all.

"We were merely wishing to speak to you, Mrs. Jeffries. Though I am willing to compensate you for your time."

She smirked and waved the girls away, ordering them back into their rooms and back to their clients. "I'll do anything for the right compensation gentlemen. Follow me."

She turned heel and made her way back up the staircase as we moved to follow her. I was still blushing profusely and hoped Holmes didn't observe my reaction.

"Are you from Scotland, Mrs. Jeffries?" Holmes asked.

"Yes," she replied without looking back at us, "from Edinburgh."

"Is that so? My father was from there as well," he replied smoothly as if the situation we found ourselves in was not one bit out of the ordinary.

"Perhaps I knew him."

"I doubt it," Holmes responded, finally blushing hotly as we could now hear noises issuing from behind the closed doors. "Who's Lena?" he inquired, I believe, merely to distract himself.

She gave him a patronizing look but didn't answer, gesturing us to a door. "You may enter."

Holmes vacillated.

She smiled, "Nothing to fear, young man, it is just my parlor."

We entered without further delay, but I could tell that Holmes was acutely embarrassed by his own reaction.

She moved some books out of the chairs for us, most notably Milton's _Paradise Lost_, and Shelley's _Prometheus_.

"I am sorry gentlemen, I am not used to visitors who wish to talk," she offered as we seated ourselves. She leaned back on her divan, stretching her figure out lazily and enticingly almost as if it were habit. Her low-cute gown made the view all the more discomfiting and I coughed and looked away.

"Is talking more expensive?" Holmes joked, in my opinion, quite distastefully. His fingers tapped the armrest, and I could tell he desired a cigarette but did not wish to remove his gloves and get too comfortable.

"Talk is cheap, Mr. Holmes. And I often find that most things of value are worth a few extra pennies. Don't you agree?"

"Mmmmm..."Holmes replied obliquely and steadfastly ignored the examination she was subjecting him to from her relaxed position.

"You say you are a detective?"

"Yes."

"Aren't you a wee young?"

Holmes brought his attention to her, which had been diverted by a painting on the wall opposite. "I don't believe so."

She smiled congenially and brought a long hand up to rest against her chest, her fingers splayed out across the curves of her bosom. "Your pardon. It is just that I think you look a mite...soft and untried to be a detective."

I glanced at Holmes' face - beyond a pair of lashes that were unnaturally long, he didn't look _soft _or _untried _in any way.

Holmes had begun staring at the painting once more, ignoring her comment and the underlying suggestion it carried. "Is that an original Degas?"

"Heaven's no. Though it might as well have been considering how much I paid for it," she replied, her eyes never leaving his face.

Holmes stood and wandered to the wall, his back facing us. "Perhaps you should have paid a few extra pennies and received something of better value." He ran a presumptuous hand over the lacquering, feeling the bumps and textures. "You purchased this? I thought perhaps you had painted it."

She laughed loudly, her voice ringing around the room. "Painting is not amongst my abilities. Though, I'd be happy to demonstrate to you some of my other skills."

Seeing as my companion's back was turned and was therefore immune to any suggestive gestures, she turned her attention to me. I flushed and looked away, cursing myself for not being a collected as my friend. I caught his eye in a hanging mirror and saw that he had been watching her.

"Perhaps another time,"he demurred sarcastically and came to sit once more, tugging at his gloves but not removing them. "I hear that Mr. Godwin visits you often?" At her smirk he leaned back and sighed, "Are you going to explain to me now that it is unethical of you to discuss your clients?"

Her smirk melted into her first genuine smile, "No. You're investigating Godwin?"

"In a sense. I am trying to...know him."

She readjusted herself on the sofa, providing my friend with a better view and sparing me from her glaring endowments. "I suppose this would be the best place to come, seeing at how free men behave here. Where else could you learn all a man's true desires?"

"So he's been here?" the detective replied curtly, obviously growing tired with her show.

"Many times."

"How long has he been a frequenter of your place?"

She thought a bit, "Around 12 years now."

Holmes fidgeted and shifted around, in great need of a smoke. "Can I ask what your impression of him may be?"

"You mean what sort of man he is? Well, obviously, the sort to visit my establishment for 12 years."

"_Obviously_. I am asking for your assistance, Mrs. Jeffries," Holmes began, a strong note of impatience creeping into his voice and rendering it even more strident, "and I am willing to compensate you for it if you would be cooperative." He started to reach into his pocket for some bills to tempt her with but she waved him away.

"I'll collect it some other time...when we're alone together." When she still did not raise his ire or fluster him, she sobered. "To be truthful...I think he is a horrid man."

"And why is that?"

"I know you may think this laughable but quite frankly, he appalls me and that is saying a great deal."

"Appalls you?" Holmes searched.

She sighed and straightened, suddenly looking less disreputable, "I've never...engaged him. I was already established enough and had enough girls at my disposal that I no longer had to inconvenience myself with clients by the time he came. But none of my girls wanted to have anything to do with him after some time; he was violent and belligerent and I didn't take kindly to my worker's being ill-used."

"This was when he first started to visit?"

"Yes. About a year before he was married. When I made it quite clear that he was not to behave that way with my girls anymore and threatened to expose him to his lovely fiancé he quieted down."

"And this appalled you?" my friend asked, a little suspiciously.

"No. I deal with that sort of thing commonly, as I do other...eccentricities. It was his behavior about 2 years ago, a few months before his wife's death, that made such a bad impression on me." She smiled bitterly, her eyes taking on a queerly melancholy look, "I assure you that I have been exposed to numerous things in my line of work, and over the years I've catered to an odd variety of tastes and preferences...some more peculiar than others but Mr. Godwin..." she trailed off and gave my friend a searching look, "Do you know his step daughter?"

"Miss Ivy?" Holmes sounded surprised to hear Mrs. Jeffries refer to the young girl, "Yes, I've made her acquaintance."

"He brought her here."

The words seem to hang in the air as the atmosphere grew heavy. Holmes had gone still.

"I beg your pardon?" he asked quietly.

"Right in here as if I would bite my tongue and allow..." she was obliged to take a deep breath for she had become quite agitated as she spoke, "I don't claim to be moral or righteous, but even I had to pause at this."

"He brought her here?" Holmes repeated after a moment's silence. His hands laid limply on the arm rests, which was a sure sign that he was beyond angry.

"Barely over 15 and ...eccentric... at that." She shook her head, "Poor child didn't even know where she was at; just stood smiling at me while he requested a room and one of my younger girls. I threw a holy fit, Mr. Holmes. I've never been so upset in my life. I told him to leave; that I didn't appreciate his bringing anyone here by force...and that's what I considered it because she had no idea where she was or what was going on."

The detective crossed his ankle over his knee and tilted his head back to stare at the ceiling, his jaw tight. "But he returned."

"Eventually, but not until after his wife died. As long as he didn't attempt to bring that poor girl here with him, I let him be...he paid well." I thought that I may have detected a trace a shame as her sentence trailed off.

"Did you know his wife at all?"

"I'd seen her many times but only spoke to her one when she came here once. This was after I had asked him to leave. She stood in the foyer and demanded to know if her husband had been there. That sort of thing had happened before, once some unsuspecting wife discovered her husband's questionable activities. Apparently, Mrs. Godwin got wind of her husbands deceitfulness. I told her that it would be best if she left and spoke to her husband herself. Her daughter was with her, I saw her waiting in the alley as she left."

Holmes suddenly stood, his jerky and controlled movement speaking of his anger. "Thank you, you've been of some help."

She stood as well and stepped into us, her height only bringing her to Holmes's chest. "No, thank you. It is not often I am engaged in discourse, it was entirely refreshing. I've had a great deal of prominent and famous men at my door over the years. Perhaps it will mean something some day to say that Mr. Sherlock Holmes paid me a visit."

Holmes bristled visibly, "Good day."


	9. A Gift

A Gift

"I feel I really must apologize. I must admit that this is not my first entrance into a _maison de passe_, but I failed to take your feelings into account," Holmes said ruefully an hour later. After leaving the estimable _Lena's House_ behind us, along with all its accommodating amenities, Holmes navigated us to a small Lebanese café in a quite corner of a cleaner street. It was as small and informal as the Criterion Bar but with the dignified and polite service you would expect at The Holborn.

Holmes ordered in, what I can only presume, was a rapid Arabic-French and quietly walked me through our meal, explaining that it would start with a traditional array of mezze - dips, salads, and vegetables - and followed by grilled meats. We drank Arak with the meal; a strong anise-flavored liqueur made from grapes and drunk with water and ice.

It was only once we were sipping our White Coffee - which, ironically, contains no coffee but rather tea made with orange blossom water - and partaking of the candied rose petals that Holmes brought up our venture, and offered his vaguely insincere apology.

"You've visited a brothel before?"

He lit a smoke as the band began playing a traditional Lebanese song. "A few in Whitechapel and around the docks...for purely professional reasons, of course," he smoothly reassured me.

"Well...today was my first encounter with anyone of 'The Oldest Profession' so...thank you," I replied in a sardonic tone worthy of Holmes himself.

"Midwives are the oldest profession."

"Your pardon?"

"Nevermind," he dismissed with a swift wave of his long, musical fingers. "I hate to be the bearer of bad news, old chap", he started with a twinkle in his eye that verged on impish, "but that was not your first encounter. Do you remember young Miss Latimer that consulted me a few months ago?"

I had to take a moment to recollect. But I could see her clearly; a tall girl with chestnut curls and gossamer features. She was so shy that she never looked either of us in the eye. I wasn't privy to the particulars of that case, as I had only made her acquaintance once on that initial visit in the last days of spring. "That little timid thing? She was..." Realization dawned on me, "Surely you're jesting!"

He blew out a stream of blue smoke towards the ceiling and shook his head with irritating placidity. "Not the slightest. She was a lady of ill-repute . . .or had been, formerly. She'd been sold to the _demimonde_ by her uncle after being orphaned. One of her clients fell smitten with her and, being the kind, _charitable_ man he was, he married her."

I took a moment to accept this. Though I couldn't condone her life, at least she'd shown some initiative to put a stop to it. "So it seems she found a way out."

"Yes, through _marriage." _He fairly spat out the last word. "That isn't an option for everyone, and even less so for disreputable, poverty-stricken women. It's not so easy to find a husband; its not like entering Simpson's and ordering a good port. Sometimes marriage isn't an alternative."

"There are always alternatives."

"If we exclude starving as a suitable alternative, then sometimes there aren't." He waved away our waiter, who as attempting to leave us a bowl of fresh fruit. "A great majority of respectable and relatively intelligent people function under the misguided perception that gains from prostitution are used to feed vices, when, in reality, they are used to feed bellies."

I shook my head at his vehemence, though I admit that I have always been a sympathetic individual and silently agreed with his unconventional assessment of the dregs of society and the situation they usually find themselves adrift in. "From someone so concerned with justice, I'd assume you'd have a pretty definite view of right and wrong. I wouldn't have taken you for a man prone to question set moral standards."

He leaned his elbows on the table, wrapping a hand around his writs and allowing his cigarette to hand carelessly from between his fingers. "In truth, my work requires a great deal more questioning than judging." He inhaled deeply on his smoke, which was his wont while in an engaging conversation. "Besides, I am not questioning the morality of it all, simply doubting the views of those whose judgments fall more harshly on the pandered than the pander_ers_, and doubting the current measures that bear down to control prostitution but not the circumstances that lead to it." He gathered up his coats and we made our way outside after settling the bill. He leaned his face into the wind and took a deep, serene breath."Cogito, ergo sum . . .or something of that gist. Did you know that in primitive and ancient societies, prostitution had religious connotations? Intimate relations with temple maidens was worship sacrificed to the deities."

"I'm fairly certain there are no deities to which sacrifices are being offered in any London brothels nowadays, or American," I riposted.

His mouth twitched up into a semblance of a smile, "Well . . . if you exclude their hectors."

"Of course."

We walked in companionable silence for awhile as we traveled back towards the inn, but instead of entering the welcoming warmth of Mrs. Swanson's, Holmes passed by without a solitary glance. I ventured so far as to ask where we were headed, though I'm sure Holmes thought the answer should be obvious.

"I intend to visit Godwin. If Mr. Matthews is our threatener, he now knows we've been hired to look into the issue. This may have forced his hand, forced him to react in some way. We have to see if there have been any further developments on Godwin's side."

He suddenly stopped between Mr. Godwin's house and the building next, though I was sure he was about to say more. Grabbing the cuff of my sleeve with an urgency rarely seen from Holmes, he brought a stiff finger to his lips for silence, and nodded in the general direction of the ally we were standing in the entrance of. It took me a moment to see through the dimming winter day and discern a stealth figure loitering about the windows of Godwin's parlor, peering into it with his face very close to the glass. He wore a dark suit and a mask that seemed to be irrefutable evidence that whatever activity he was involved in was less than honorable.

Holmes moved forward without a sound, save the faint shift of snow beneath his substantial boots. He still clutched my sleeve and thus pulled me eagerly along as he approached our target. I believe we would have reached him without notice, except my jacket caught against a fire escape ladder, pulling just enough against the metal to alert our suspect to our presence.

Holmes broke into a sprint as soon as he heard my slip, catapulting down the alley before the black clad man himself did, once he noticed us. I kept as near to Holmes as I could as we chased the figure through slim alleys and back streets, slipping and skidding on the thin ice, our balance thrown by the random clumps of snow. My heart skipped each time I almost lost my footing on the perilous ice; my chest hurt with each hard breath, but I kept with Holmes as the chase drew on. The fleeing man was slender but his legs were long and he was sure-footed, keeping a steady space between him and us, which was a feat considering the speed that I knew Holmes was capable of without even becoming short of breath.

I am by no means a torpid man myself, but my lungs began to burn painfully and in the dim, fading twilight of day, it was hard to keep our mark in sight. Holmes seemed indefatigable though, even as he lost his footing on a slate of ice and tumbled to the hard, frost-bitten cobblestone. Holmes is the only man I have ever know who was able to slip almost elegantly, and he rolled out of the fall and onto his feet so quickly that I almost doubted that what I had just seen really took place at all, save for the telltale red splotch of blood where he had fallen that made my heart jump with worry as I espied it; it's color a startling contrast to the pale day and white snow. I urged myself to go faster, with more intent to see if and where Holmes was injured than to trap our eluder.

I rounded a corner, following the trail of Holmes's billowing overcoat, just in time to see him righting an overturned trash bin apparently used by our escapee as a step to launch himself up to a fire ladder and onto to the top of flat roofed building with a speed that was almost inhuman.

I grabbed Holmes's arm, "Are you hurt?"

"I'm quite alright," he snapped, shrugging his arm out of my grasp and reaching for the trash bin once more.

"He's gone," I huffed out, bending over and resting my hands on my knees, winded and exhausted. "He's gone. Probably into a window on the other side of the building." Each word was punctuated by hard breaths and gulps for air.

There was blood on the trash can. "Are you hurt?" I repeated.

"It's nothing. Though my suit is ruined." He was pacing in small circles like a caged animal but he held out his hand to me obligingly. The skin of the fleshy part of his palm was completely skinned off, most likely when it adhered to the ice on his fall. It was already bruised and ugly, and blood was seeping down his wrist and between his fingers.

"This should be disinfected and wrapped. Come along." I stepped into my comfortable role as doctor and let an authority seep into my voice that I usually felt inadequate to use around Holmes.

He followed after me dutifully as we walked the few blocks back to the inn. We passed by a lamplighter on our way, and beneath the gas beacons, Holmes examined his hand.

"This burns," he stated with such a matter-of-fact voice that it sounded as if he were merely docketing information away for some future purpose.

We entered the inn and tried our best to calm the admirable Mrs. Swanson, who was terribly concerned about Holmes's hand, both for the damage to him and to her carpet. She gathered us some brandy and gauze as the detective cradled his hand and did his very best to look blasé and unconcerned about his injury despite how much it was assuredly smarting.

When we entered out suite, I cleaned his wound with soda water and poured a bit of brandy over it all, noting the way Holmes squirmed almost indiscernibly. "Did we learn anything from his appearance?" I asked as I carefully wound his hand up, trying to avoid squeezing his palm too much.

"He was an inch or two taller than Matthews," he responded, glaring at me as if I were trying to cause him discomfort intentionally.

"So it wasn't Matthews."

"I don't quite see, practically speaking, why Matthews would be peering so avidly into Godwin's house in any case. Seems there would be very little to gain from it; he already knows the layout of the house," he ruminated, poking at his trouser leg where it was wet with snow and ripped along the seam. There was blood on his cuff that almost matched the dark burgundy of his tie. "I'll have to have my suit fixed...I like this suit."

"Well," I started, ignoring his absent-minded laments, "it's settled one thing . . . there is something funny going on. Godwin isn't making it up. Did you think of that?" I would soon learn in the years to come living with Holmes that it was not a wise thing to imply that he had overlooked something. Despite his physical strengths and attributes, the thing he was proudest of was his intelligence, and his vanity rivaled any young woman's concerning her beauty.

"Of course," he snapped, pouring himself a drought of brandy and settling into a seat across from me, frowning fiercely at me. "I'd like to think I am a relatively intelligent man who is quite capable of putting two and two together."

"It's not enough to have a good mind, the main thing is to use it well." At his surprised look, I smirked at him, "You aren't the only one who can store away a few quotes for appropriate occasions, Holmes."

His frown melted, and he smiled behind his brandy glass as he raised it to his lips. "Yes . . . but can you quote them in Latin?" he teased.

I rolled my eyes, packing away the rest of the bandages and capping the brandy decanter to prevent Holmes from taking another glass, it wasn't healthy to drink so much during the day. I left him there as I went to my own room and changed, bringing back with me the present I had purchased for him that afternoon, figuring that now was as good a time as any to give it to him.

"By the way, here. It's just a trifle."

He looked surprised at the box I tossed into his lap. Setting aside his glass he laid his hand on the top and gave me an apologetic look, "I didn't get you-"

"I wasn't expecting you to," I waved away, and poured myself a glass of water. "As I said, it's only a trifle. I just thought you might use it if you ever travel to the country." He opened the box and pushed aside the white paper.

He stared at the unexpected boon incredulously and then started to chuckle in that soundless way that was peculiar to him.

I gestured to the item with my water glass, suddenly feeling self-conscious. "Will you not use it?" I asked. I hadn't expected a very demonstrative thank you, but I hadn't forseen being laughed at.

"No, no," he reassured, pulling out the gift and eyeing it with interest. "I actually needed one and it will go very well with my country tweeds." He plopped the deerstalker onto his head and grinned goofily at me. "Does it suit me?"

To see him sitting there in a fashionable, raven-black morning suit, ripped and damp, with his hair wet and dripping onto his collar, curling in all sorts of odd directions, and a plaid country hat on his head was, quite honestly, ridiculous looking. I burst out laughing, almost doubling over. He joined me in mirth and tugged it down further on his head.

Our joviality was interrupted by a timid but urgent knock on the door. When I opened it, Mrs. Swanson stood there with her nephew.

"Is something the matter?" I asked. I could feel Holmes rising from his seat.

Pembry took a deep breath and looked down at his notepad, as if finding the answer somewhere on the blank pages. "Mr. Matthews is dead."


	10. A Note to readers if there are any

I have revised most of this story so whoever is reading this (the few people who are) would probably benefit from starting over at the beginning. I am simply trying to make this more cohesive and add some more interesting details . . . in other words, trying to make it more readable :)

Thanks for reading and please review! It helps me write!


	11. The Murder

The Murder

"What?" Holmes exclaimed as he burst passed the woman and officer.

Grabbing our outerwear, I followed quickly after, passing Holmes' coat to him. Mrs. Swanson took it and attempted to help him into it as they rushed down the stairs.

"He's at Godwin's presently," Pembry informed us. "He's in the office; half his head is gone."

"Daniel!" Mrs. Swanson reprimanded, though her nephew merely cast her an exasperated frown as we exited the inn, leaving her behind in the comforting warmth as we braced ourselves against the cold once more.

"He's given a statement and turned over his gun to us," he continued, struggling to keep up with our quick pace and running his shoulder against the store fronts in an effort to walk next to the detective.

"He's confessed?"

"Not exactly. He claims he acted in self-defense. He showed me some threatening letters he'd been receiving . . . said you'd know of it."

Holmes arched his shoulders, either in hesitation or annoyance , though I leaned to the latter knowing his decisive personality. "Yes, I know his story."

"Do you think there is any merit to it?"

"I couldn't say," Holmes evaded.

"There's absolutely nothing you are aware of that could aid me in this case?" I detected a strain of desperation in the young officer's voice, but he covered it masterfully.

There was a moment of silence. We parted for a lady coming past. I thought for a moment that Holmes was on the verge of recounting our afternoon chase, but instead, he shook his head slightly, using the lull in our pace to brush a bit at his hair and merely said, "I'm sorry. Are you the leading detective on the case?"

"Yes," Pembry responded, "though Leach is there. I daresay he'll be none too pleased when he sees I've asked for you. Very prideful, he is."

We'd reached the house by then and with the air of a man rightly belonging there, Holmes brushed past the officers stationed at the door without a glance and heedless of their cries of protestation.

I followed behind, attempting and most likely failing to put on the same air of authority. Behind me, I could hear Pembry reassuring the men that he'd called us there and that our presence was to be respected. I caught a rather insolent dissent from the officer's but Pembry paid them no mind and was soon at our side, leading us to the personal office of Godwin.

The office was furnished comfortably with what I took to be French furniture and oak wood. My view was obscured at first by the back of a tall cream tinted divan, but laying on the expensive umber colored throw rug was the corpse of Mr. Matthews. The sight was ghastly. I will not subject you to gory details, but a close-range shot to the head is a messy wound, and there was quite a bit of blood. Matthews was sprawled on his back with his arms spread wide, his unseeing eyes directed at the ceiling above with a glassy vacancy. He hardly looked the man I had seen earlier, and had I not known it was him coming into the room, I'm sure it would have taken me a moment to make a correct identification.

It was clear on first entering that our presence was not welcome amongst the fifteen to twenty men who were already in the room, poking about the corners and staring at the body with a surprising lack of interest. I heard the conversation and murmurs around me.

"Oh look, its the honorary detective," scoffed an acne scarred young man to my left.

Holmes ignored them for the most part, stepping around the edge of the carpet and bending over to scrutinize Matthews. An officer moved forward to look at something as well. As soon as his boot touched the rug, Holmes ordered him back sharply. The officer complied, though he glared fiercely at my companion of moved off to complain about him to his peers.

"Could you keep them back?" my friend asked Pembry, walking around the length of the rug, hunched over and peering closely at the fibers.

"Move back a bit!"

One man was in the possession of enough nerve to defy him, standing his ground and replying with and indignant and incredulous, "I beg your pardon?"

"Please don't step on the carpet," Holmes ordered strongly, forcing the boy back with the sheer masterful tone of his voice and timbre.

"I've kept the carpet clear for you Mr. Holmes," Pembry volunteered, coming to crouch next to the unofficial detective, who was peering at the carpet with his chin in his hand. "Is something on your mind?"

"There's a queer foot dance going on in those prints." He gestured with his finger in the general direction of the rug.

"In what way?" we asked simultaneously, both staring hard at the floor, trying to see what he was looking at and what he apparently saw so clearly that we did not.

"It looks as though Matthews ran head first into the bullet."

Before his eager audience could respond or ask for clarification, there was some shuffling at the door. Detective Leach entered with a pale and robe-clad Mr. Godwin, who frowned when he saw us.

"I didn't expect to see you here Mr. Holmes," our client stated absurdly.

Holmes leaned back and rested his elbow on his knee, taking a moment to rub his stubbled chin with his fingers, a gesture that implied he was either vaguely befuddled by something or annoyed. His hair was drying into a disheveled mess that reminded me of the street urchins he sometimes hired to do his grunt work.

Finally he inclined his head with a forced politeness. "I believe you called on my services. Is this Matthews?" he waved a finger at the corpse.

"Indeed. Indeed." Godwin circled Leach to come stand on the opposite side of the rug, Matthew's body spread out between us and him like some strange symbolization. "I'm afraid the whole thing is closed though. Matthews admitted to me that he'd been sending me the letters."

"What was his motive?

"I believe he'd lost his mind, Mr. Holmes. He was raving like a lunatic about the debt I owed him. Then he started going on about that dead girl, sobbing and screaming."

Holmes's voice was incompliant when he responded, "You refer to his betrothed?"

"Yes . . . I forget her name."

Holmes didn't offer it. He sighed softly and stared for a moment at the gaslight above us. He stretched his back and rose, backing up to sit on a small tête-à-tête gossip bench made with cream and amber upholstery and threads of gilt; it was the only feminine furnishing in the room.

"What exactly happened?" he asked as he shifted and poked absently at the hole in his trousers that he had noticed once again. "If you could start at the beginning?"

"I asked Mr. Matthews over to visit, hoping we could hash out whatever was between us. We entered the office here, which also serves as my parlor for the most part, and I slipped my weapon into my pocket; he was already behaving erratically, you see, and I was becoming fearful. I turned to him here," he stood in the spot he referred to, "in front of the desk. He was by the pigeon hole workbench. I asked him plainly if he'd been writing me threatening letters. He admitted it, with a snarl on his face that will go with me to my grave, and began screaming at me. He said I thought I could get away with anything, that us rich men were always trying to shirk our debts but that he would take mine out of my hide. Then he started weeping about that girl. I moved to comfort him and that was when he pulled a pistol from his pocket and leveled it on me. He said, quite clearly, that he wished to kill me. He took a few steps forward, onto the rug, and that's when I drew my own weapon and fired. I was aiming for his shoulder . . . but I am not a very good shot," he admitted.

After a moment of silence, Holmes finally responded to the account, "Are you under arrest?"

Tut, tut, man," Leach yawped, his tone loud and opprobrious, "It seems a perfect case of self-defense to me."

Pembry moved forward, his expression a mixture of annoyance and panic at Leach's overtaking of the case. "I would prefer-"

"Mr. Holmes knows of my suspicions," Godwin interrupted. "And he's seen the letters. I called him in straight from as far as London to look into it. Surely that's evidence enough that I felt my life was in danger."

All eyes turned to the lounging detective at the lawyer's assertion. Holmes's face remained passive, but I could tell he was acutely annoyed at the position he'd been put in.

"I think anyone with a clear mind and even a smidgen of common sense can see your story is incontestable," Leach insisted and then directed his attention to Holmes with a false camaraderie. "Though I suppose, Mr. Holmes, that your time has been quite thoroughly wasted."

Holmes's passivity cracked, only slightly, but enough to inform me that the older detective was beginning to grate his already highly sensitive nerves. He reached into his coat pocket for his magnifying glass. "So I presume you won't mind if I take a closer look at the body?"

"Of course."

"You've already looked at the body." Pembry and Leach's responses ran over one the other. The two men glowered at each other for a bit as Holmes took the assent and began his customary examination of a crime scene, putting his face almost to the ground and analyzing each inch of it minutely. Pembry followed his movements at a safe distance, taking care not to step in his light. His obvious enchantment with Holmes every move was obvious, a fact that I was sure Holmes found overwhelmingly flattering, albeit mildly irritating.

Leach went to hover over him as well. "Mr. Godwin tells me he hired you to look into these threats . . . so do most of your investigations end with your client, whom you've been hired to protect, being accosted and nearly killed in his own home?"

His shadow landed on the spot of rug that Holmes was studying. The detective sighed loudly. I had come to hunker down next to him and he glanced at me out of the corner of his eye. "Apparently, I am a praetorian army in and of myself," he whispered with mock exasperation.

At his ruefully annoyed expression, I coughed delicately and tried to stifle a smile.

"What the devil is that supposed to mean?" Leach responded.

There was a commotion at the door before we could enlighten him. The very air of the room seemed to change, as is usual when a young lady enters. And young Miss Ivy's presence in the doorway, wearing only a chemise with a lacy and light robe, was exceptional enough to agitate the men into stupid immobility. They stared at her as she walked into the room, her eyes trained on the body before her with an intent and fascinated expression.

"Could you please escort her out of here?" Holmes commanded brusquely, snapping the men to attention.

An older officer took her arm firmly and pulled on her. "Move along, miss."

"Don't touch her." Holmes was up and pushing the man's hand away from the girl. He looked down at her face, garnering her attention. "You shouldn't be in here, Ivy." She stared at him and the body in turn, her petite mouth opening as if she wanted to say something but not uttering a word. Finally Holmes took her arm, gently and without force. "Come on. Let's go back to your room."

She obeyed, turning and latching onto his bicep, and walking slowly with him back out into the hall with Godwin following behind. I didn't miss the snickers and whispers about her among the official police force as she passed, but Holmes paid them no mind. I trailed after them, frightful that she may faint after what her young eyes had seen.

"_Anyone dwelling in the secret place of the Most High will procure himself lodging under the very shadow of the Almighty One. For He himself will deliver me from the trap of the bird catcher, From the pestilence causing adversities. With his pinions he will block approach to me, And under his wings I will take refuge. His trueness will be a large shield and bulwark_." She spoke rapidly, her words coming in a rush of breath like that of child attempting to comfort itself.

Holmes froze at the foot of the stairs, staring at her hard. He tilted his head, searching her face, though she would not turn her eyes to him but rather stared up at second floor. She slipped her hand from his arm and lifted the hem of her robe, making her way slowly up the landing, her voice quiet and subdued.

"_I will not be afraid of anything dreadful by night, Nor of the arrow that flies by day, Nor of the pestilence that walks in the gloom, Nor of the destruction that despoils at midday . . ._"

The train of her robe disappeared around a corner as she faded away and a few moments later the soft sound of her piano wafted through the house. Mr. Godwin shook his head in exasperation and turned away.

"Stupid girl."

Holmes stared at the back of his head, his face set as hard as a flint. Leach came out into the hall and asked us if we were finished with our examination.

"Not quite," Holmes responded, pushing past him back into the office.

"What exactly is it you hope to see, _detective _Holmes?"

"Perhaps something you have not."

Leach scoffed, "It's difficult enough to gather evidence with all my men -"

"I'm sure it is," said Holmes demurely.

"- but," Leach continued after an irritated pause, "you think that you, a lone man, can see something that all twenty of these men overlooked?"

Holmes merely smirked. Turning to Pembry, he patted the man's shoulder companionably. "Do you think you could keep your men off the carpet? Unobtrusively, of course. I'd hate to aggravate them any more than my presence here already has."

Godwin came to sit on the divan as Holmes resumed trotting noiselessly around the room like a bloodhound, chatting to himself and moving in a manner that could only suggest that he was attempting to recreate what had transpired in that room. The officers watched his maneuvers with a contempt that called to mind Scotland Yard and reassured me that the police force was an unimaginative lot, whether they served under the Stars and Stripes or the Union Jack.

"I'm terribly sorry to have bothered you about all this," Godwin said from his relaxed position on the couch. "I suppose I need to cut you cheque for your services . . . though we never did discuss your payment did we?" He seemed to be rambling, and Holmes ignored him, if he even heard him at all. "I'll, of course, defray whatever expenses you may have been put to." He sighed loudly, "My rug is ruined. Now I'll have to travel to Britain to purchase another. Did you know that they are only made in one place? Arighi Biancho . . . or something like that. It's Italian . . . Have you been to Cheshire, Mr. Holmes?"

The occupied detective looked up from where he was nearly laying on the ground, frowning lightly at his interrogator. "I visited the Roman ruins once," he answered softly, his expression betraying his bafflement about his client's odd behavior and speech.

"Breathtaking, _breathtaking."_

"Indeed," Holmes agreed, shoving himself off the ground with a grunt and sudden vigor. "Well, I think I'm finished here." He slipped his lens back into his pocket and nodded at his client. "I'll be in touch about payment." And then he was making his way outside with Pembry and me trailing behind.

"Mr. Holmes-"

"Do you have his letters?" Holmes interjected before the officer could ask him to divulge his thoughts.

"Yes, right here."

"May I borrow them for just a bit?"

"Of course." He dutifully handed the bundle over, looked slightly aggrieved by Holmes lack of forthcoming.

Holmes slipped on his gloves and accepted the pile, nodding his thanks and bounding down the steps without a second glance behind him.


	12. HELP NEEDED!

I am in need of a help. I need someone who can proofread my stories for errors. Not just grammatical errors, but other kinds as well, such as mentioning an item or an event that hadn't existed or taken place yet. Any inaccuracies that I may have overlooked.

I would also love if someone would be willing to let me know if they language I am using is fitting for this time and age. I try to compare a lot of what I write to the original canon, but even so, if it could be said in a more "Victorian" way, I would like to know what it is.

Even if I recieve no volunteers for this job, please still feel free to give more constructive criticism or to point out inaccuracies or errors you see while reading. It would be of great help to me!

Hugs and kiss, hugs and kisses.


	13. A Partnership

A Partnership

"What are you thinking?" I asked as we distanced ourselves from Godwin's home.

"Something's amiss," he stated in a flat tone, biting the inside of his lip.

I had seen something myself that I thought was curious, though I was too dull to realize it until we were on the street. "Where was the gun?"

Godwin had pocketed a Samuel Colt revolver that the police had laid on the side table. It was untarnished and obviously not used much since it had been nearly pristine, but I couldn't remember seeing a pistol near Matthews's corpse.

"What?" Holmes asked, looking distracted by my questioning. "Oh, it was beneath the armchair. Did you not see it?"

"You didn't examine it."

"Ah, but I did, though I didn't touch it - wouldn't want to _overstep _my bounds," he added with a definite twinkle in his intense eyes. "It was a Snaphaunce, no discharge. It was completely unremarkable and most probably untraceable," he dismissed with an accompanying wave of his deft fingers.

"Are you certain he brought it with him?"

Holmes quirked a brooding eyebrow and checked his pocket watch. I followed suit. It was only a quarter after seven. "No, I'm not certain he brought it with him. And my instincts are leading me like a hunter by his fox hound to believe that he did not."

"Why?"

We were approaching the inn. Holmes stopped outside the door and fixed me with a hard stare. "Matthews's footprints show that he rushed towards Mr. Godwin before he was shot. That hardly makes any sense to. Does it to you?" His eyes were studiously bent on me, waiting.

I shrugged, "Perhaps he panicked when Godwin drew his own firearm."

The sound he directed at me was nothing short of disgust. "You don't-" cutting himself off, he strode purposefully into the inn, barking a gruff acknowledgement to Mrs. Swanson, who was busy arranging her ledger.

"Mrs. Swanson! Would you help me test something?"

"Hello to you too," she riposted.

"Let's pretend for a moment that you want to kill me," he said abruptly and smiled with good-nature when this statement was met with a burst of laughter.

She calmed a bit, though her eyes still glimmered in way that assured me she was dangerously close to making an unladylike comment. "Alright."

The detective commandeered her hand, pulling it heedlessly into a pantomime of a gun. "Very well, you have a gun on me like so."

"This is a very impolite gesture," she interrupted with mock seriousness, though she continued to train her finger on him in a half-cocked posture.

He sighed dramatically. "You're trying to murder me, you aren't concerned with being _polite_. Now, you have your weapon drawn. I stand here," he stepped back a few paces, almost touching his back to the wall of the dining room, "and as you prepare-"

"How badly do I wish to kill you?" she cut in, blowing a wayward tendril of hair out of her oval face.

"You are _raving _with hate . . . quite out of your mind." Holmes was taking her blitheness in a surprisingly sedate manner. "Now, I suddenly draw a gun out of my own pocket and tell you to drop yours." He imitated this action. Anyone entering the inn would surely have been quite confused by their dueling stances, their fingers cocked menacingly at each other.

"What do you do?" he asked. "Besides drop your gun, of course."

"Um . . . " she shook her head in uncertainty. "I don't know . . . draw again."

"Alright." He pocketed his pretend pistol and then drew it quickly.

She made a shooting gesture.

"_Exactly_!" Holmes exclaimed with the air of a man who had been quite unjustly contradicted and now finally proven correct. "So you would not drop your head and charge me like some rabid rhinoceros?"

"I doubt it." She smiled as if something amused her greatly, but she did not share her thoughts with us.

"Thank you." He inclined his head with mock gravity.

She returned the gesture. "Glad I could be of assistance to you."

"Would you like to be of more assistance?"

She had recaptured her pen to continue her work but she set it down with the air of a patient and attentive wife humoring an impulsive husband. "Of course."

He leaned on the counter and crossed his arms. "Has Ivy always been the way she is?"

Mrs. Swanson inhaled slowly and took up her pen again. She shrugged and bent over her work. "For as long as I've known her."

Holmes stared at the top of her head. "She was quoting Scripture to me today."

"Yes, she does that when she's upset. Though," she glanced up at him curiously, "I have to say it is a bit odd if she addressed you directly; she usually acts oblivious to anyone else's presence."

Holmes didn't press that matter, seemingly unconcerned with Ivy's fondness for him. "How long _have _you known her?"

"Since she moved here with her mom. She was . . . five, I believe."

"Her mother must have been very special to raise an exceptional child like that."

She sighed and cast my friend an amused smile. "If you want information on Ivy's mother, you need only ask. You don't have to chat me up."

He cupped his chin and stared at her hand as she efficiently made changes on her register. "I assure you," he began with that irritatingly languid and imperious tone he could assume so easily, "that I wasn't attempting to manipulate information out of you. If I were trying to manipulate you, you wouldn't be aware of it."

She smirked, unperturbed. "That skill must come in handy with the ladies."

He shifted a bit at that but didn't respond. He simply continued to stare expectantly at her.

Mrs. Swanson exhaled long-sufferingly. "Mrs. Godwin, or Gertrude Brown, at the time, moved here with her parents when Ivy was young. Her father was a lawyer as well. He worked with Godwin."

"So he was a bit older than Gertrude?" I asked.

"Quite a bit. Not unusual that a young woman marries someone a bit older . . . and generally less appealing." She shrugged, "But I can't begin to explain _that _considering I was ten years my husband's senior."

"Mmmmm . . . " Holmes murmured and gave her a brief frown that I couldn't decipher.

"Did your husband pass away?" I asked sympathetically.

Her face went hard, and she closed her ledger and shoved it down on a lower shelf behind her counter. "No."

Holmes glanced sharply across at me; Apparently we had both erred in our deductions about her marital state.

Holmes cleared his throat. "But might you know why Gertrude married?"

"I would assume most women, despite their husband's shortcomings, marry because they love them."

"Yes, but why did Mrs. Gertrude Brown marry Godwin?"

She pursed her lips, "What do you mean?"

"Come now, Mrs. Swanson. No need to stand on ceremony or manners. I am asking you why a woman like Mrs. Brown who, according to the portrait of her I've been forming in my mind, was a perfectly lovely and trusting woman, would marry a man such as Mr. Godwin, who, if not completely odious, is at least wholly disagreeable?"

"So I take it you've heard the rumors about Mrs. Godwin and put no stock in them?" she asked exactly what I'd been thinking.

When he affirmed this, she continued, "Her husband had just passed in an omnibus accident, which is why she moved here to New York from Georgia with her parents. Then her mother died of consumption. She was grieving deeply and Godwin took his cue to step in and declare his undying love."

"He took advantage of her mourning?"

"Women tend to look for a shoulder when they are depressed. He apparently said the things she wanted to hear."

"So . . . like gold apples in silver carvings is a word spoken at the right time, eh?"

"You're a man, you wouldn't understand," she stated bluntly, not willing to defend the matter. "I can't say what he was like after the wedding but she seemed," she appeared to search for the appropriate term, "_deflated_."

We bid her goodnight soon after, declining a light meal of cookies and milk (which Holmes seemed to regard as unbearably amusing) and ascended the stairs to our suite. Holmes paced around my room swiftly, eagerly, with his head sunk upon his chest and his hands clasped behind him. His attitude and manner told their own story. He mind was at work. I sat on the edge of the bed, watching his almost hypnotizing rotations.

"Why did you ask Godwin about whether or not the body was Matthews'?"

He ceased his restless moving and strolled into his adjoining room, loosening his tie and taking off his jacket. "Because I didn't want to let on to Godwin that we'd spoken to Matthews or met him."

"Why?"

He had disappeared from sight.

I was met with silence for a while before he strolled back in, clad in his favorite robe and swirling a glass of brandy moodily. "I wanted to see if Matthews had mentioned it."

I stood and took the glass from him with a disapproving frown just as he brought it to his lips. His drinking habits worried me at times. I took it to my side table and set it down without a word.

Unflappably, he immediately went to my own side bar and poured himself another dash of brandy. "Obviously," he started as he swirled his tumbler and ignored my irritated sigh, "Mr. Matthews had not mentioned our visit to Godwin."

"What does that mean?"

"I don't know." He downed his drink in one hearty swig and settled the glass down with a loud clang. "There's no motive. If Godwin murdered Matthews in cold blood, then _why_? I can't work without motive; Motive is the key. People do not kill without a reason; if ever they did, I'd be nearly helpless to find them out. The most difficult crime to track is the one which is purposeless."

I stood to remove my own coat, "Perhaps Godwin is telling the truth."

"Perhaps."

"So what are we to do?"

"Tonight, I plan to satisfy myself with these letters." He indicated the bundle he'd received from Pembry. "Tomorrow . . . there's a matinee of _Faust _at the newly opened Metropolitan Opera House. If you have any cultural leanings, we could taste the young fruits of art here in New York, see how it measures up to the great opera houses of London."

I downed the brandy I'd stolen from him. "You wish to go to the opera?"

"Always." Though Holmes could be fairly monk-like in his personal comforts during a case, going without food or sleep until the problem was solved, he usually found time to visit the Covent Garden, St. James Hall, The Royal Opera House or even the Lyceum for music or opera. It was something he could not deprive himself of, I'd found, and perhaps it fed his soul in a way that food did not feed his body. This thought still could not quite persuade me to an increased tolerance for his addiction to music at strange hours, however.

"Alright," I conceded, "then after?"

"Ah . . . that will be a surprise," he evaded, moving once more to the sanctuary of his own room. "Goodnight." With that he closed his door, but not before I caught a glimpse of his violin being snatched up, the dragon's blood of its hue illuminated by the gaslight.

We ate a late breakfast and went immediately to the Opera House to take in an early show of _Faust_, Gounod's tragedy. Holmes watched the show intently, leaning forward in involvement, his elbows on his knees, very dissimilar to the languid and self-reflecting posture he assumed while attending concerts.

As we exited the doors he hailed the performances, "Splendid voices and portrayals. I admit I was surprised."

"It was quite a depressing tale, though."

Holmes shrugged, "Marguerite attains salvation at the end, despite her sins."

"But she had been put through so much, all because Faust was covetous."

"Faust was to pay a much higher price than she in the long run _dans l'enfer. _Did you not get the fundamental message, Watson? That perhaps there are some souls too pure to be tainted, even by the devil."

"Or perhaps that God doesn't expect purity, simply goodness."

He blessed me with a peculiar half-smile that I suspected meant he was impressed with my analysis. But, not being a man who easily bestowed compliments, he merely shrugged noncommittally and walked on in silence. We rounded a corner and were now near Matthews' flat. The street was deserted just as before; I was starting to wonder if anyone emerged from their homes in this neighborhood during the day. When he bounded up the steps with a quick, cautionary glance about the place, I realized what he intended to do.

"Holmes-"

He pulled out a pocket cloth of black velvet, opening it to reveal a highly expensive and sophisticated pick-lock set.

"Stand guard."

"Holmes, I hardly think this is appropriate!" I protested on account of the law, though I admit there was an element of excitement to be had in participating in such a questionable activity.

"I don't think Matthews will mind."

I didn't dignify that callous remark with an answer. "I'm sure the police will want to take a look around themselves."

He laughed, a loud bark of a scoff. He moved the picks around in the bolt with a precision borne of practice. "I have a sniggling suspicion that the case is officially closed in their minds. I wouldn't worry too much about them rising from the depths of their ineptitude and mucking about anymore."

"Sniggling?"

He shot me an irritated glare. "My dear fellow, just keep watch on the street. I'll do the criminal part."

I stomped down the stairs theatrically to crane my head down the barren street. "Oh, _of course_, because it's not as if any passerby wouldn't immediately notice a crouched figure stealthily picking the lock of a dead man's house, or his comically annoyed lapdog, dutifully and foolishly standing guard-"

"And mumbling to himself," he cut in absently.

"Wouldn't this be more discreet after nightfall, Holmes?"

"Perhaps to enter, but we would be obliged to turn up the gas if we visited during the night, and seeing as we may be awhile, that might attract attention from even the most unobservant of neighbors. Dammit. Come on . . . voila!" The door swung open and he gestured me in with burlesque formality. "You may enter."

I took a moment to close my eyes and gather some well-needed patience before I said something cross to him. I mounted the steps and decided that the damage was already quite done; at least we might gather some clues from it all.

"Come now, don't shuffle about old man," he ordered as I made my way up the stairs, "We _are _breaking the law."

As I passed him in the doorway, he _tsked _impishly. "Your morals don't improve, Watson. _Breaking and entering_, I never thought you'd be so blasé about crime, doctor."

I glared at him as he closed the door and drew the curtains. Matthews's rooms were still as they were when we had visited him, and Holmes quickly set about opening the boxes and scanning their contents.

"What exactly are we doing here?"

He pulled off his gloves and sat on the settee, pulling a box towards him with an annoying air of placidity. "We are going to go through the late Mr. Matthews's belongings."

"For what?"

"For anything that may have belonged to Violet DuBois, particularly a diary of some sort. Women invariably keep diaries."

I found a spot on the battered divan and drew my own box near to start the search. "You're so certain Miss DuBois' things will be here?"

He was already halfway into the bundle, pulling out items and depositing them onto the table if they didn't interest him. "She had no family. I have no doubt she would have stipulated in her will that all her things be passed to her future husband."

I shrugged, settling a large china plate, painted intricately with an image of the Statue of Liberty, onto the floor next to my feet and shuffling some more insignificant items around. "She was a young woman, she may not have taken the time to draw out a will."

"She knew she was going to die."

"She probably wasn't thinking clearly."

He clucked his tongue, pushing that first box away now that he was satisfied with it and starting on another. "You'd be surprised at how settled and calm a person may be once they've made up their mind to extract themselves from the milieu of the world. In my experience, they plan and prepare for it, almost as if they were merely taking a holiday."

I glanced up at him from where I was scanning through a receipt book which was filled with ordinary purchases. "In your experience? Have you written a monograph?"

He was quiet for a great while, bent over his assortment of trifles.

"I had a passing interest."

His tone was curious to me, but even I, who admittedly is not as observant as Holmes, could plainly see that it was not something he wished to discuss further and it would have been ungentlemanly of me to pry into it.

"Did you know that Goethe's _The Sorrows of Young Werther _was reported to have caused a wave of suicides in Germany?" I supplied instead.

He looked at me over his shoulder, frowning and shaking his head slowly. "I think many who decide on suicide believe that it will leave their memory with an air of mystery. In actuality, all it does is leave everyone behind with a deep anger at what you've done; Upset that you'd leave them willingly, that you'd be so hurtful, wondering what you were thinking . . . if you ever thought of them at all."

There was a hardness to his words that startled me. While not always the most sympathetic individual, I still expected some fellow feeling on his part for those in pain instead of speaking as if every person who'd taken their own lives had personally offended him!

"Or perhaps they are just sad," I defended.

"Very true. Have you ever done a postmortem?"

The sudden switch of topics caught me off guard. "What? Yes, once or twice. Why?"

"It might be useful later."

"For Mr. Matthews?"

"No, no. Just for the future."

And with that simple four-word statement, implying subtly that he expected me to accompany him on more cases in the future, he'd touched on a subject that had been plaguing me.

I wanted to be involved in his work; it was exciting, and for a man as unoccupied as myself, it made exceedingly less humdrum. I'd been wanting to speak to him of this very thing, but felt uncomfortable with that I wished to ask of him. With a deep breath, I took the plunge. "May I confess something to you, Holmes?

"Of course."

"I've been chronicling this case in my notes, as well as that last little problem I accompanied you on, _A Study in Scarlet_-"

"Is that what you named it?" He sounded tickled by that.

I blushed. "Yes. You see, I enjoy writing."

"Yes, I know. You needn't ask my permission to do so, my dear Watson." He had often caught me writing notes, though he was too much a gentleman to inquire into what the nature of those annotations were.

"Yes," I inhaled again, wondering suddenly why I felt so unsure about speaking plainly with him, "but I had planned to publish. I've even spoken to a man about it from The Strand. Would you object too much? I wouldn't dream of overstepping my boundaries, Holmes, and will not make a move until you grant me permission."

He looked surprised and then glanced away, a flush coming to his cheeks that indicated he was flattered. When he turned back to regard me, his expression was neutral once more. "You wish to chronicle my cases?"

"And a bit of you as a man," I added hesitantly.

_That _warranted a look of a bit more suspicion. "A bit of myself as a man?" The words rolled off his tongue slowly. "You aren't going to relocate to Conduit Street and compose whole volumes about my life are you?

I waved my hand in the air. "I'm no Boswell, Holmes."

"I'm sure you'd outshine him in every way should you choose Watson, but I'd rather you'd not take it that far." I smiled at his blithe and quick compliment. "If you wish to chronicle my cases I don't quite see how I could object. They may even be beneficial for business. But it would mainly consist of the cases, is that correct?"

"Of course. I have no interest in regaling the public with what you had for breakfast or what lady you decide to walk out with."

He ran a hand over his mouth, though I knew it was only to mask a smile at this last remark. "And you would deal only with facts, with no subterfuge?" he finally asked.

"Without question."

"I'm very flattered." He disappeared into the depths of the box again, leaving me to stare expectantly at him. He noticed my confusion and nodded at me, his eyes twinkling mischievously. "That meant 'yes'."

I let out a relived breath. "Thank you."

"I can assume, though," his voice was muffled by his search, "that if I wish something to remain private . . . "

"It goes without saying."

"Good. _Good_."


	14. Bluebeard and Kate

Bluebeard and Kate

It was nearing two in the afternoon and we were still rifling through bundle after bundle of personal effects. I was on the point of telling Holmes I wanted to stop for tea when he let out a loud exclamation of triumph and delved deeper into his newly opened container.

"Did you find something?" I asked eagerly.

"I may have," came his muffled reply. "If I can rely on Miss DuBois's meticulous organizational skills, I think I have found the box." He removed items carefully, placing them on the table between the divan and the chair. A writing quill and other general desk items made an appearance, all possessing distinctly feminine designs. Finally, after rummaging around the bottom with less care and patience than he began with, Holmes flourished a bundle of small leather-bound diaries, perhaps holding forty pages apiece.

"Alright, check the street."

I glanced out of the window as discreetly as I could manage as he repacked the bits and pieces. I felt a keen thrill of excitement now that we were obliged to escape. I knew that the few unobserved seconds between the door and the street were imperative to our success and to the possibility of reclaiming our inn suite.

The road was empty and a light rain had begun descending on New York as we'd been busy at our task. We crept out silently and bounded down the steps, anxious to be on the sidewalk and able to plead innocence to any interest in the late Matthew's flat. Holmes cast a clear eye about us, no doubt searching for any observers in the tranquil windows of the surrounding rooms.

Once we'd distanced ourselves sufficiently, Holmes smiled at me brightly.

"That was invigorating."

I sulked a bit. "Yes, as is the rain."

His smile brightened even more so at my bleak demeanor and he slipped something into his pocket that he had been concealing behind the bundle of diaries. Despite my lack of observational ability (as Holmes would claim) I didn't fail to notice this.

"What is that?"

He had the grace to look slightly shamefaced and shoved the object deeper into his pocket. "I don't think I'll tell you. You'll think me criminal."

"I already think you a criminal."

He looked away and shrugged. "They won't miss it."

"Holmes! What else did you take?"

He chuckled and withdrew his hand, along with his purloined item. "Settle down, it's only a book." He showed me the volume, a deep-forest green book a bit bigger than his palm. I read the title.

"A young German woman was employed as my Governess during my adolescent years. She would entertain me with these stories," he confided, running a dexterous finger across the binding.

"The Grimm tales?"

"Oh yes," he started fondly. "She was constantly reciting them to me, though at the time I believed she was making them up herself. She was also in the habit of regaling me with stories of Bluebeard and many other terrifying myths in an effort to frighten me."

"When I was boarding at Charterhouse," I responded, "our headmaster told us the story of Bluebeard. I was old enough, though, to realize that the whole thing was only a myth I mean, _really _. . ." I scoffed, "a wealthy aristocrat marries seven times and in each case the wife disappears without a trace or clue? Finally, he marries the young daughter of a local lady and eventually his new bride finds a forbidden room and discovers all of his previous wives hung up dead on the walls? When she is unable to wash the blood from the key she'd used to enter the room, he turns his rage on her and _then they lock themselves into a tower _-" I broke off with a snort, "It smacks of invention and lacked any of the qualities able transform mediocre horror into a thing romantic like Shelly or Walpole. I suspect it was simply fabricated by some woman as a cautionary tale to her daughters concerning marriage."

He nodded, but didn't look entirely convinced of my dismissal. "It did seem to lack eloquence, though it was related to me with a sufficient amount of enthusiasm to keep my interest. Did you know that that this story was inspired by Gilles de Rais, who served under Joan of Arc before her execution?" he asked.

"The name seems familiar . . ."

"After Joan died he settled into some estates in Brittany. It was only rumored he was involved in black magic, but he was most certainly a killer. His main means of murder was usually by decapitation, and his victims were generally young boys whom he'd kidnapped for …deviant… purposes. The murders were finally looked into and the remains of fifty boys were unearthed in de Rais's castle, though he may have killed over three hundred people. Seems the official police force was inept even at that time," he lamented in jest.

"Its funny," he continued, "how myths have their roots in truth and how dissimilar the story and the reality can be from one another after a time has passed. Bluebeard, to most, _was_ simply an invention. Unfortunately for me, I was not quite old enough to recognize it as a fable; Alva related that story to me for the first time when I was five, used it as a threat to keep me quiet because Bluebeard would _'snatch me up' _if I was not. She finally told me the truth when I started crying." He laughed, "I think that frightened her more then Bluebeard frightened me. I had never done so in front of her before. After that, she kept to the Grimm tales, since I was near impervious to being affected by them."

I resisted the urge to comment on the image of him as a child, crying about a man with a wild blue beard who would abduct him if he didn't behave. "She sounds dreadful," I volunteered instead.

He gave me quick frown and cocked his head. "I didn't think so. She purchased a volume of their fairy-tales as a present for me when she left to return to Germany with her parents, but it was lost . . ." he trailed off, ruffling through the worn pages of his ill-gotten gain until he found what he was looking for. He held the pages open and showed me the heading. "I always preferred this one, though she called it _Rumpelgeist_."

I took the book from him, the pages crinkled with age under my fingers. "I favored that story as well," I agreed. "There was an old college fellow I knew, Jacobs, who bore some definite literary leanings though he was a medical man like myself. We used to kid him that he'd make a fine surgeon if only he were allowed to place a book in someone as he worked on them," I recalled warmly. Indeed, Jacobs had eventually withdrawn from medical school and joined one of those exclusive literary circles to share his work and ideas. I had been afforded the opportunity to read some of his poetry, which was quite good, though I heard his finances had yet to reflect his talent.

"In any case," I continued, "he spun us a good theory that the deciphering of Rumpelstiltskin's name was a symbol of power; that once you are able to name the forces bearing down on you, you are able to be free of them."

Holmes seemed to consider this hypothesis. "Is that so? I hadn't thought of it. To be honest, what I found fascinating the most were the unanswered questions – and, of course," he smiled wickedly, "the delightfully gruesome depiction of Rumpelstiltskin ripping himself in two at the end."

"What unanswered questions?" The story was no more than four pages in length and extremely straightforward; I hardly thought there was much that could be unanswered about it.

"Well, firstly and most importantly, there is the lurking, hovering, always present issue of _why_?" he emphasized. "_Why_ does Rumpelstiltskin do the things he does?" He tapped the book on the back of his hand, falling into deep thought and continuing in a reflective voice, "In the beginning of the story he offers to help for a worthless necklace, the next time, a worthless ring, and finally, he rejects all the riches of her kingdom to take her child from her. Why? These things were only valuable to her; the most valuable, in fact. Was he upset with her? Seeking revenge? Over what? Or perhaps, he lusted after her and punished her for his own inadequacy."

I laughed soundlessly as he slicked his rain soaked hair back away from his forehead. "I think you may be analyzing it a bit much. I always assumed that he wished to eat the child." At his confused look, I clarified, "His song at the end - _today I bake, tomorrow I brew_ – sounds as if he were preparing to eat the child."

Holmes shook his head and stopped to face me. "Yes, but if he were merely a cannibal, then why not simply kidnap some other child to eat–" He broke off abruptly as an older woman strode past, giving us a decidedly alarmed and distrustful look, which was made even worse by our sudden and seemingly guilty silence.

"Why not some other child?" he continued once she'd continued on to wherever she was going, which was hopefully _not_ straight to the police to report two men discussing cannibalism of small children. "Why become so obsessed with this woman's baby? That would still imply a deeper motive."

I threw up my hands. "Now I'm utterly baffled . . . something I never foresaw happening during a conversation about children's fairy-tales."

He chuckled. "Yes, well, that simply proves my point about the importance of motive."

He fell silent for a bit, that peculiar crooked frown on his face that I knew meant he was thinking of something significant. Finally, his expression smoothed and he sighed loudly.

"Crime is messy," he offered, "especially murder." I nodded, realizing our conversation had taken one of those veering turns back to the case at hand. "First," he enumerated on his long fingers, "you must plan it. Then arrange a setting and get your victim to that setting. Then, you must kill them – _successfully_. Then, you must clean up the body and also the scene; if it takes place in your home, there's furniture to be replaced, floors to be re-carpeted or, even worse, blood-stained wood to be cleaned. Then the police investigate and if they're competent-" He cut himself off unexpectedly and smiled ironically, "what an absurd premise to go on, eh? – As I was saying, _if_ they're competent, it may lead to an arrest, to court, to the gallows, and ultimately to a very indecorous and undignified death at the end of a noose. So why go through it all without a reason?"

I gave him a scrutinizing look. "In the case of Godwin, you believe it's murder and not self-defense?"

"I suspect it."

"And you think Violet DuBois may have known something?"

"Matthew's murder followed too closely on the heels of Violet's suicide for it not to take on a rather suspicious shape."

He pulled at his stubbled lip, muttering a bit to himself. At length, he shook his head and slapped the soft covered book against the back of his hand with a frustrated grunt.

"I'm missing something, Watson, something important. I need data, I can't make-"

"Yes, yes, bricks need clay and wine needs grapes and all that nonsense. Holmes, you aren't missing anything. You never miss anything. We simply need to arrange our pieces logically."

Holmes gave me a strange look, both amused and feigned surprise. "We?" he echoed meaningfully.

"Well, you did say I could chronicle your cases," I defended.

He stared at me for an interminably long time, almost running his shoulder in a lamppost, even. "I did," he finally admitted, a small twinkle of something bordering of smugness dancing in his eyes.

Then he grew silent and contemplative, his mind apparently returning to the case at hand. He stayed that way for the remainder of our walk.

We'd reached our inn and entered into the warmth with eagerness. My very bones felt chilled and I rubbed my gloved hands together as we mounted the stairs. To our surprise, Mrs. Swanson was busy about her work of setting up the lunch table when we entered my room.

Holmes smiled broadly and closed the door. "Mrs. Swanson! What timing you have!"

She smiled as she laid the silver. "I suppose. Though it is time for the midday meal, so I could also suppose that it is _you_, and not _I_, who has the impeccable timing."

The detective flung off his overcoat and gloves without ceremony. "Shall I move your tray to your room, Mr. Holmes?" she asked as he unbuttoned his navy frock coat and dispensed with it as well. At least he had the good grace to leave his tie and stiff collar intact in front of her.

"That's quite alright," he waved her suggestion away. "Your lovely establishment seems almost deserted, Mrs. Swanson. I hope business is well."

She had moved to the door and I opened it for her before she paused to respond, "Oh it's quite well. It habitually clears out a bit after Christmas day, folks go back home. You'd be surprised at how quickly people desire to leave off visiting their relatives."

She bid us adieu and nodded in my direction as I held the door open for her exit. Holmes plunked himself down at my writing desk as I turned my attention to the food, which was a delicious combination of honeyed ham, stuffing and potatoes, eggnog, and a lovely dessert of fruitcake and hot drinking chocolate. Obviously, Mrs. Swanson was using us as a means to dispose of the leftover Christmas foodstuffs. Holmes chose to forgo the meal, but did bring a cup of thick chocolate and cake to where he sat with the diaries laid out before him.

I ate in silence as he skimmed through the pages of one of journals, his elbows on the table and one hand smoothing the back of his hair absently, a habit of his while reading.

He turned a page and sighed as I finished my meal and sipped some eggnog, the warm rum and rich cinnamon imbuing me with a delightfully relaxed and cozy feeling.

"Any success?" I asked.

He exhaled loudly. "Well, aside from some very detailed recollections of past dreams, and some startlingly progressive views on feminism and politics, I've learned a great deal about her thoughts on fashion, marriage, children . . . and that Mr. Matthews apparently had an annoying habit of hitting his spoon on the side of his cup as he stirred his tea, but Miss DuBois didn't know how to broach it." He spread his hands in a mock helpless gesture, and then settled back down to skimming the diaries and smoothing his hair.

"Why don't you look at the last entry, since it would be the last thing she wrote before she died?" I volunteered.

I thought he would reprimand me for suggesting he take a short-cut but his hand stilled and he started to laugh. "I am such an immitigable fool at times, Watson. What would I do without you?" His compliment served to make me feel even warmer as I basked in it. He rifled to the last used page of the diary. "Let's work backwards." Flattening the pages out, he read it intently.

"Hmmm . . . look at this." He stood and offered me the book, which I took with one hand while still sipping my drink.

The last entry was dated from seventeen days previous and consisted of a curious and brief: "I . . . " and nothing else, as if Miss DuBois had taken up her pen to write and either lost interest or couldn't continue on.

The entry prior to it, on the opposite page, was dated a few days before that one and read as follows:

**I visited Father Michaela today. He tells me that I should pray if I have troubles. I can't find the strength to pray, because there is nothing to be done. Can I save another's soul with prayer? Do I wish to save his soul? **

**I love him. **

"What do you think this means, Holmes?" I asked as I turned the page to see the previous note, which was written a mere day before and held none of the melancholy or agonized distress of this account. Something had happened between that date and the next, something that she did not spell out even in her personal diary.

Holmes paced furiously back and forth before swinging his frock coat back onto his shoulders. "Let's take a walk."

I stood and followed suit. "Where?" I asked as I smoothed my vest and checked the mirror to see the damage the rain had done to my appearance.

"I thought we might take a tour of Hell's Kitchen. What do you say to that?"

"To be honest," I answered, "it wasn't how I imagined spending my time." Hell's Kitchen was reputably not a pleasant place. Filled with poor Irish immigrants and others whose poverty turned them to gangs, it was notorious for sin and desolation. It was reportedly blessed with its apt nickname when a New York Times__reporter went to get details of a multiple murder there. He referred to a particularly notorious tenement at 39th Street and 10th Avenue as "Hell's Kitchen," and said that the entire section was "probably the lowest and filthiest in the city."

Holmes smiled. "It's no Trafalgar Square, its true. But it's no Whitechapel either. We won't have any problems _wit' shivs _or the like. We'll stay out of the worst parts."

I could see that he was eager to see the crime-soaked area. Holmes's profession and interests sometimes led him to odd fascinations and questionable means of recreation. I acquiesced and followed dutifully, trying to quell the nervousness that sprung up in my chest.

Once outside, he struck a match on the cobblestone and lit a cigarette before offering me one out of his jacket pocket. I declined politely.

"You haven't had a smoke since we docked here, doctor. Do you miss your Salmon and Gluckstein?"

"I find the fresh air refreshing," I explained and inhaled deeply to highlight my point.

He drew on his tobacco appreciatively and blew out a cloud of smoke that mixed with the vapor already in the air.

"Let's shift over the case and what we know so far," he said after we'd walked a few blocks. "Mrs. Gertrude Brown moves to New York from Georgia, marries an older man and lives out the next thirteen years in quiet unhappiness. Then, she's killed while in the park by a man whom her husband claims was her lover . . . "

"You don't believe that?" I interrupted.

"Not at all," he answered firmly.

"Would you care to share your reasons for this firm belief?"

"Ivy never went to school. She was also not raised by a governess or a nanny. This means that while Mr. Godwin was away at work, she was taken care of by Mrs. Gertrude Godwin. So when exactly would she have had time for this affair? Where would the assignations have taken place?"

I shook my head, "Holmes, that's hardly fool-proof reasoning."

"Fine then," he snapped. "It just doesn't feel right to me." I declined to respond, seeing that Holmes was obviously working off instinct, which was something that never pleased him to admit.

"As I was saying," he continued, "she's killed in the park by her 'lover', who receives a bullet from Mr. Godwin but still manages to escape and is never heard from again. Two years later, her closest friend writes some disturbingly ominous and depressed entries in her diary and then kills herself. A week later, her fiancé is accused by Mr. Godwin of threatening his life and is eventually killed by Mr. Godwin in 'self-defense'."

"Do you understand any of it?" I asked.

"I would understand it all if it weren't for one point that eludes me."

"Which is?" To be honest, I could not see through the muddle at all.

"The man at the window; the man I chased. It wasn't Godwin and it wasn't Matthews. There's an unknown quantity here that I can't explain with the present data."

"Perhaps-"

He suddenly glanced in the wide-paned window of the shop we were passing with a look upon his face that made me fall silent. Rounding the corner, he pulled me into a side street swiftly. "Shhhh. Come here."

We waited a second, hardly breathing, and then his hand snaked out with lightening fast rapidity and caught the sleeve of a hooded passerby. I could tell it was a female from the tattered shawl that concealed her features.

Holmes pulled her roughly to him and removed her shawl to reveal her to us. "Why are you-"

It was the greeter from the reputable _Lena's House_. She stared at us with that same strangely vacant look, mixed with fear at being discovered, her cherry hair unkempt and falling over her left eye.

Her gaze darted chaotically between us both. There was something peculiar about her eyes that I had mistaken purely for lack of emotion when I had faced her in the foyer of the brothel.

"_Kate_, is it?" I asked.

"Yes," she replied before lowering her eyes. "Your gloves are cold," she whispered to Holmes, who was still holding her upper arm beneath her shawl.

He let her go and moved to the side to prevent her from running. "Why are you following us?"

She glanced around for a moment, as if seeking escape, but there was none, unless she decided to knock down my friend, which I don't believe she was capable of with her petite build.

"I wasn't doing nothing wrong. I wanted to talk to you." Holmes declined to respond but gave her a patronizing look that spoke of his disbelief. "It's true," she protested. "I didn't think you'd talk to me - you're two fancy British gentlemen and Mrs. Jeffries says we shouldn't talk to men like you outside the house."

I cleared my throat. "We're listening if you need to say something to us now."

She glanced around again and lowered her voice. "Mr. Godwin killed someone?"

Holmes looked at me sidelong, obviously finding this all very interesting. "The police have ruled it self-defense," he answered neutrally, carefully searching her expression.

Her face fell noticeably and she brought her hands up to rub her arms, for either warmth or comfort. "So he won't go to jail?"

"Not as it stands now," I reassured.

Instead of consoling her, this made her look even more crestfallen. Holmes frowned. "Are you upset about that?"

"He deserves to hang!" she exploded unexpectedly and then clamped a hand over her mouth to quell the tears welling up in her eyes. Again, I tried to get a better look at her face to pinpoint what was curious about it, but the shadow of the alley and the disarrayed hair on her head prevented me.

Holmes gave her a keen look. "I must advise you that it is unwise to say such things about a man whose life is already threatened. You may implicate yourself in some scheme."

"I thought he'd already killed the person after him?" she answered smartly. Holmes smiled wanly and cleared his throat. I read a bit of respect in his eyes for her nerve.

"Why do you believe he deserves to hang?" I asked.

She pushed her hair out of her face, finally allowing me a better look. I saw now that her right eye was unfocused but seeing, and that her left eye was entirely useless. This would explain her empty look and curious way of walking. She had nearly run into Holmes when he'd grabbed her, faltering much more so than a clearly seeing person would have.

"He did this to me," she spat. "He threw brandy in my eyes and wouldn't let me flush it out."

I felt a groundswell of sympathy for her, as lowly as her situation was. Her employer had spoken to us about Godwin's brutality to her girls, which had been so severe that she had nearly barred him from her establishment.

After a long stretch of silence, Holmes finally spoke softly, with more than a trace of compassion in his tone, "Your . . . Madame already informed us of his cruel treat. . ."

He almost tripped over his words as she suddenly shrugged her flimsy shift off her shoulders and dropped it to her waist. Instinctively, I reached out to readjust and cover her again, but she turned her back to us and showed us what she wished for us to see.

Angry welt marks whipped across her back, from her neck and down to where they disappeared into the waistline of her dress. They looked old, and were now only scars, though her flesh was irritated around them, probably because of sensitivity to abrasive clothing. Holmes let out a small curse under his breath as we surveyed the injuries.

"He did this as well," she said quietly, her head bowed. "It'll never go away. I can't see clients no more because of this and now I only open doors which don't pay good. Mr. Jeffries allows me to stay because she's being nice, but I have no money and nowhere to go!" She broke into a sob, unconcerned with her state of dress.

Holmes ran a hand over his face and turned away. "Put your dress up, please. You'll get us arrested."

She scoffed. "Right, _I'll_ get arrested, is more like it," she muttered but complied, sliding her arms back through her linen and shaking out her shawl. When she'd covered herself sufficiently, she turned and looked at my friend imploringly.

He met her gaze straight on. "I can't mete out your justice for you, Kate."

She nodded, her lips compressed together and her chin quivering. "He deserves to hang. He done _something_. He ain't never been innocent in anything in his life. If someone were threatening him, it's because he deserved it," she stated firmly. Holmes's face contorted with frustration.

"We're still looking into it," I interjected.

She brushed away her tears and took a calming breath. Apologizing for bothering us, she made to walk around Holmes and leave the alley. He grabbed her once again, his other hand stealing into his pocket to withdraw his money book. She frowned at him when she saw it but didn't say a word as he withdrew a substantial sum of American dollars and pressed them into her small palm.

"Here, take this. Don't give it away. It's not payment, it's a gift." He tightened his grip on her hand, forcing her to look at him and not at the money, which she was gazing at with nothing short of awe. "Hide it if you must but do not let anyone take it from you. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

He released her and for a moment she looked as if she wished to embrace him but thought better of it, merely nodding to herself and leaving silently. We watched her make her way across the block, sticking out like a sore thumb with her shabby clothing and inadequate covering.

"Poor girl," I lamented as she left.

Holmes threw his hands up in the air with sudden exasperation. "I wish she'd told us something more. None of this helps me. Being odious is a crime that many indulge in and get away with, especially when it's directed at people like that. I can't do anything with this." He ran a hand over his face like a man distracted and then gave me a thin smile. "But come," he clapped me on the shoulder, "let's not let it stand in the way of our afternoon stroll. I need to think, and walking is good for the intellect."


	15. Something Unexpected

Something Unexpected

Hell's Kitchen wasn't quite the horror I had in mind. Granted, in the revealing and exposing light of day, it seemed to be a cesspool of poverty and filled in every corner and cranny with dismal and wretched people, but we were witness to no criminal acts. We wandered to various areas, which surely meant something to Holmes, though he didn't enlighten me. In fact, he hardly spoke at all; he fell into a sort of introspective daze that I would learn was common to him. I could only imagine he was sifting and processing through the facts and data of the current case in that wonderful mind of his. Or perhaps he was dwelling on our unpleasant encounter with that poor unfortunate girl who'd cornered us.

I addressed it only as we were returning to our suite.

"A penny for your thoughts?" I prodded him gently as we passed beneath the unlit gaslights. He shook his head distractedly, biting the inside of his mouth in that peculiar way of his when he was particularly contemplative.

"You may trust me, Watson, they aren't worth a penny," was all he answered, and strode into the inn ahead of me.

He was almost to the top landing of the stairs before I'd reached the desk to address Mrs. Swanson, whom Holmes had practically ignored. My arm wound was throbbing terribly and my leg was stiff and inflexible. I needed a moment to prepare myself for the journey up the staircase.

She gave me an inquiring look and gestured towards my companion's back. I shook my head to prevent her from speaking to him, fearful of his discourtesy when he was so preoccupied.

The makeshift bell she'd attached to her entrance door jingled and prevented us from getting so far as to acknowledge each other verbally. I turned to nod at the newcomer with a tip of my hat.

Her hair down and dusted with snow, her feet bare and her pale blue dress insufficient to guard her from the chill, Ivy stood there in the threshold, the door held open by her shoulder. A strong draft of cold wafted in around her, but she proved oblivious.

She stared at Holmes, who'd turned to look at her, somehow instinctively knowing she was there. Her usually abstracted eyes bore into him with a startling intensity.

A concerned cry of disbelief erupted from Mrs. Swanson as she rounded the counter to take the girl by the shoulders. "Ivy! What's wrong?"

"Sherlock." To Ivy, that seemed to be a complete explanation. She whispered his name softly and reached a hand out to him.

"Ivy, why are you here?" the detective inquired as he descended the stairs, only to be grabbed by her as he reached the bottom.

"Come," she ordered and tugged on his sleeve.

"No," Mrs. Swanson intervened, "She has no shoes on, and she cannot go back out in that weather."

Indeed, she was shivering something awful and she was pale as well. We managed to keep her still as the older women supplied her with socks and boots, all the while as she clung to Holmes's arm and kneaded her long fingers into his bicep with barely constrained anxiousness, even forcing him to sit beside her on the step as her boots were tied.

Once she was properly attired in shoes and a cloak, we allowed her to lead us back out into the cold that I had so gratefully escaped from only a moment ago.

She declined to answer any of Holmes's inquiries, merely pulling him faster with each question, her already awkward gait made stiffer with the freezing chill in the air. Midway to her home, she nearly collapsed from cold, swinging around from her grip on Holmes to smash into his chest and fall at his feet.

Her pale complexion had assumed a dangerously bluish hue. Holmes felt about on her face a bit before lifting her up to carry her, reprimanding her even as his step quickened with worry.

He carried her effortlessly, her petite form hardly a burden for him. I was fortunate he was there, as my shoulder and leg would have prevented me from helping her. I was perilously close to having a need to be carried myself.

To his credit, he didn't falter even as she lifted a hand to stroke the side of his face reverently, besides to murmur a teasing scold about her cold hands. As she ran her fingers over his cheek and jaw, tracing the hair on his face up to behind his ear with slow deliberation, I realized suddenly that Ivy's attachment to Homes may have gone beyond the childish infatuation as I had first disregarded it. I knew that Ivy's life was a solitary one, perhaps even when her mother had been alive, and that the isolation she must have felt was deep-rooted and painful. She was conceivably incapable of normal social niceties and manners herself, but it was not fantastic to presume that she still desired and needed others to interact with, to feel close to. She was using Holmes as an outlet for these needs, in all likelihood because, in keeping with her true mature age, she was attracted to him in a way that she herself probably did not understand. I wondered what kind of remarkable women she would have been had she not been afflicted with such an ailment, and wondered even more how Holmes would've reacted to her attentions had she had she not had this terrible disorder.

The door to Godwin's home was ajar when we arrived. Holmes pushed open the door with the heel of Ivy's boot without announcing himself. The gas was turned low in the hall, with only a few low candles lighting the way. Godwin finally appeared in the doorway of the library, his robe clutched closed and his face ashen.

Despite his weak appearance, his voice was strong when he demanded to know what we were doing standing in his house without invitation.

Holmes gave a pointed look to the young girl in his arms, which Godwin seemed to miss entirely.

"Do you have a fire going?" my friend asked, and began to stride into the open double doors past Godwin.

"Not presently. And you still have declined to answer my question, young man. Perhaps you didn't hear me?"

Holmes bristled a bit. "I assure you, seeing as I am quite _young, _my hearing is finely tuned and I heard your question. Perhaps you will give me a moment to get her warmed up?"

As Holmes settled the girl into a comfortable chair and pulled it close to the grate of the dark and unlit fireplace, Godwin finally seemed to notice her. "Was she wandering about outside again?"

His concern was really quite _less_ than overwhelming.

"She walked to Swanson's inn to find us, she was very upset. Could you enlighten us at to why?"

Godwin ignored the blunt prodding and shook his head with an annoyance that seemed entirely out of place considering the poor girl's condition. "She's always doing this. She's barmy-"

"I thought she was stupid?" Holmes cut in angrily, throwing logs into the fire rapidly and a bit vehemently. He untied her boots and pulled her feet near the blaze, rubbing her soles quickly to warm her as he cast one of those fast but all-comprehensive looks around Godwin's library.

He nodded to himself, so slightly that I only noticed because I was watching him closely. I took Ivy's pulse as Holmes pushed her toes around gently. Her heartbeat was slow but not dangerously so, and I suspected she would be fine after a few moments by the fire. Holmes let a moment of silence pass before he addressed Godwin again.

"Do you have any idea who may have shot at you?" The question seemed to startle our reluctant host.

"I beg your pardon?"

"There's a bullet hole in the hanging portrait above your encyclopedia collection, directly across from your open window. Your chair lies immediately in the middle and in the line of fire. I'm quite surprised the shooter missed at all."

Godwin sighed. "I stood right before the shot."

"Why did you stand?"

Ivy sighed loudly at Holmes ministrations from where she'd nestled deeply into her chair.

"Ivy had just turned the gas down and then back up. I leaned forward to look at her and then stood to . . . to speak to her about it. That's when the shot happened. It missed me only barely."

Holmes nodded again, reaching up to slide his hands around the girl's neck to gauge her temperature. "Why is your window open?"

Godwin shrugged. "I often become hot, and it's very uncomfortable for me during the summer months."

"How long have you suffered from this condition?"

"A few years."

"When I first came here, you told me you did not give chase to your assailant because it was snowing?" Holmes countered, a strong tone of suspicion creeping into his low voice.

"There is a large difference, _young man, _to running in the snow barefoot and allowing a cool wind in through a cracked window."

"Did you see the person at all?" Holmes asked, refusing to chomp foolishly at the bait once more. He rose to his feet and slipped his hands into his pockets. Ivy stared up at him longingly.

"By the time I registered the shot and looked out the window, whoever was there had fled. In which direction, I don't know."

"What did you do when you heard the shot?" I asked, purely out of curiosity. I already knew the answer.

"I took cover, of course, I fell to the ground."

The typical coward's answer. I refrained from pointing out that the more gentlemanly - or, even more fitting - the more fatherly thing to for him to have done would have been to shield his daughter, but perhaps that was asking too much.

Holmes sent me a subtle look that implied his thoughts ran parallel to my own. He declined to comment on it as well.

"Would you like me to examine the area outside your window, sir?" Holmes volunteered, unnecessarily, since I knew full well he intended to do just that whether Godwin wished for him to do so or not.

"I suspect you will do what you please, regardless of any other person's feelings," the older man replied.

Mr. Godwin seemed hardly the man to lecture another about consideration or thoughtfulness. Holmes quirked a disbelieving eyebrow.

"Indeed, I _will _do as I please," he assured frostily. "Aren't you a wee bit concerned about this, Mr. Godwin? Or, at least, curious about why you may have been targeted . . . _once again_." He let the intimated insinuation of his last words hang in the air.

"The very fact that my life has already been targeted only confirms to me that the situation has not been taken care of adequately, and the incidents are related," Godwin explained.

Holmes laughed; a sharp and unforgiving laugh. "Do you mean to tell me, sir, that you believe that this incident is related to Matthew's attacks upon you?" Holmes stepped forward, a mediated carefulness in each step, "_Matthew's_ attack upon you which you _claim_ stemmed from an unstable mind tipped off balance by his fiancé's death . . . _which, _incidentally, took place _weeks_ after you asserted the first threatening letters reached you? Matthew's attack, which was allegedly motivated by grief and set off by a simple gambling debt? You mean to _suggest_ that this attack was and is part of a larger conspiracy? And that poor, unstable Mr. Matthews had somehow managed to enlist a co-conspirator that is now taking up the mission to take your life?"

Holmes stepped close to the older man, using Godwin's stunned silence to deliver the deathblow to the absurd theory. "Tell me, sir, what exactly would be the motivation behind this attack?"

Godwin faltered a bit before riposting arrogantly, "Perhaps someone is avenging Matthew's death."

"Oh, good heavens," Holmes muttered and turned away from him.

Ivy was still staring at him, her large cloak wrapped around her small form. The chair seemed to engulf her. Holmes patted her head distractedly.

"Since you don't seem to mind, I think I will take a look outside."

"He adamantly claims he isn't concerned but I wonder how interested he'll be to know what we've learned from looking around," Holmes remarked shrewdly and with more than a touch of disdain as we rounded the corner to enter the same alley we'd previously engaged our unknown prowler in a dramatic foot chase.

"I have to heartily agree that he is at present behaving like an inexplicable ass," I retorted as Holmes crouched low to the ground, the twilight of the evening rendering the task of spying anything, whether footprints or otherwise, a much harder task. Godwin had obviously closed the window and drawn the curtains, providing us with privacy, but also with a decided lack of illumination.

Holmes drew an arm up to stop me as I began to move forward, hoping to be of some assistance to his endeavor instead of merely an appreciative audience to his findings. But it would seem Holmes was not presently in the market for a partner. I drew back and crossed my arms, giving the ground about me a cursory scan for anything of importance, but I could see nothing discernable without crouching to a lower level, and, quite frankly, I had no desire to put forth such an effort for a person who was clearly not welcoming of my services.

"It does seem a tad curious considering how eager he was initially to have his ominous letters investigated, but now seems unruffled by an actual, tangible attempt on his life," Holmes contemplated, inching slowly around as he examined the snow beneath the moonlight.

"He was troubled, Holmes," I reassured firmly as I kept a close eye on his movements. "I could see plainly that he was; he simply didn't want you to know."

"That's a distinct possibility," he replied coldly. It was one of the peculiarities of his proud, self-contained nature, that although he appreciated outside views on the thoughts and motivations of his clients, and though he realized that his own reading of others' inner workings and feelings was a bit shoddier than his reading of footprints or tobacco ash, he seldom deigned to verbalize his thanks on such matters.

I chose to ignore his tone, knowing it would pass quickly. "But why?"

"I think it was his wish that after Matthews's death and the 'resolution' of that little problem, he would never see us again."

"Do you think _this _could all be a ploy, Holmes?"

"Well, I haven't seen a footprint, but it is dark. If I had to make a call now though, I'd have to say no," he replied.

"Why not?"

He sighed loudly. I suspected that once he found marks or another clue, he would be in more long-suffering mood. "For the simple and obvious reason that Ivy called upon us this time and Godwin did not."

"Perhaps Godwin sent her?" I suggested feebly.

"No." His answer was short and indisputable. He made a slow approach nearer to the closed window of our bothersome and maddening solicitor. Stopping short of the sill, he suddenly bent down and let out a soft exclamation of victory.

"Hulloh!" He pointed to two perfectly pressed prints in the snow next to Godwin's window. I could barely see them in the dark, but I discerned that they were side by side, as if made by a long period of standing still. "It's a bonny thing," Holmes murmured appreciatively, almost lovingly, as he gazed at his newfound treasure. "I used to track footprints when I was boy," he informed absently as he caught a trail and wandered a few feet away. "I tracked the nurses and servants, my dog, my family . . . needless to say, they weren't very happy about it; felt it invaded their privacy. One of our maids wore boots that were too big for her . . . that's how I always knew where she was on the grounds."

He hurried on a few paces, his concentration focused, his lips parted, and the muscle in his neck stretched as tight as a whipcord. I watched him silently for a bit before I ventured forth and dared to interrupt him; the cold was unpleasant and bitter and I was growing tired of standing in the harsh weather.

"What do you see?"

He stood and returned to the spot where he'd found the initial footprints by the window. "Our shooter stood here for some time, most likely waiting for Godwin to enter the library. Then he turned," he swiveled and demonstrated the move, "to shoot into the room, and did it quite quickly. Then he took off in a run down here." He followed the prints and I followed after dutifully until we turned down a byway opposite the one we'd explored during our previous pursuit. We continued down the path until we faced a wooden fence. Holmes grasped the top, which reached above his head, and hefted himself up enough to gaze over it.

"Clever boy," he murmured and landed back onto his feet, brushing off his gloves. "He jumped the fence to get to a clear pathway where the snow had already been swept aside, so that there would be no prints."

"His foot is smaller than yours and mine. Does that mean he's shorter than both of us?"

"No. His stride would suggest that he's shorter than me, but about your height. He's also light on his feet . . ." he smiled impishly at me, "unlike you."

I hadn't lived alongside him long, but I knew it was wisest to refrain from falling into a bandy of words with him when he was in a mischievous humor.

"I'm so utterly confused," I commented instead.

He frowned at me, as if deeply confused himself. He pointed at the ground, "I can tell he's light on his feet from the pressure of - " He started to explain.

"No, no. Not that," I interrupted. "I was certain Godwin was fabricating the threats against him, and now this . . ."

"Yes," he started, standing upright completely and brushing off his trouser knees. "Well, now we can be assured that this attack has not been fabricated." Suddenly, he dropped down and gently prodded around in the snow and pulled something invisible from it. He did his best to hold it to the light for me to see. "Look here."

I still did not see what he held between his index finger and thumb but nodded in spite of myself. He gave me a knowing look and stood, immediately making his way back around the corner to the front of Godwin's house.

"Let's see if he opens the door," he joked after knocking brusquely with the brass handle.

He did open the door. Holmes entered without being invited and walked into the library once again, going straight to where Ivy still sat in the comfort of the chair, and laid the back of his hand on her forehead. After satisfying himself to her health, he turned and raised his hand to show our host his clue, which I could now see was a lone strand of dark brown hair.

Before he could speak, however, Godwin cut him off shortly.

"I hate to insult you, Mr. Holmes," he started in a voice that implied he was really quite glad to do so, "but I don't have much faith in your parlour tricks anymore. Your meddling has done very little to aid me since you arrived."

Holmes could look very formidable when he so desired, and the withering stare he leveled on Godwin was intimidating enough to make most men shrink like a faint-hearted violet. Godwin stayed his ground though, and after a few moments of uncomfortable and unsettling silence, Holmes finally spoke.

"Am I to take it," he began slowly, each word rolling off his tongue with meticulous thought and measure, "that you do not wish for me to look into this matter?"

Godwin nodded. "I would appreciate if you refrain from prying any more than you already have."

Holmes clucked his tongue slowly against the roof of his mouth, his usual habit in lieu of using vile language. "Mr. Godwin . . . I feel the need to remind you, simply for the dignity of my exit, that you yourself requested my service to start with, and that I am only here in the States and at your house because you inquired for me to pay you a visit with the express wish that I 'meddle' into some goings on that were worrying you. However," he drew out the word, "your behavior now would imply that you didn't really desire my help at all. This is confusing to me, as I'm sure you're intelligent enough to understand, seeing as it is unusual, to say the least. Now," he shrugged and arched an eyebrow, which forewarned me that he was about to say something ungentlemanly, "I've entertained the notion that perhaps you merely took the situation as an excuse to meet me. Perhaps you saw a photo of me somewhere, took a fancy . . ."

"Young man, you strike me as the type to consider yourself invincible, but I assure you, that if you aim that sharp tongue at me once more, I will knock your teeth in," Godwin responded in a low voice. This threat didn't seem to rattle Holmes much, who simply patted Ivy's hand, which had stolen out of her cloak to reach for him at the harsh words being traded.

"You warning is received and documented. But if you aren't concerned about your life, that's fine with me. However, I think we'll take Ivy for the night," he stated authoritatively.

"Why?" Godwin demanded.

"Because she seems unsettled, and I think she would feel safer."

I expected Godwin would object, but he simply shrugged. "Just for the night. I won't have her living in an inn with two strange men and ruin my reputation in this town."

Holmes bent down to Ivy, who stared up at him with a deferential look on her fire-lit features. "Would you please go pack a nightdress and toothbrush Ivy?"

She nodded and left the room.

"Does she have a more substantial coat?" I asked, fearful that her cloak was still not sufficient to guard her from the cold that had just affected her so horribly.

Godwin shook his head. "I haven't been coat shopping; I already mentioned that I don't suffer from the cold."

Holmes shot me a long look that seemed to say exactly what I was thinking; that Godwin seemed incapable of thinking of anything outside his own needs and comforts.

"Yes, I'm sure your money is better spent elsewhere," he commented derogatorily.

We stood in silence until Ivy returned with a small bundle beneath her arm.

"Would you like to stay with us at the inn, Ivy?" Holmes asked once we were outside and shuffling down the steps. "Mrs. Swanson, I'm sure, has an empty room you could stay in. Would you like that for tonight?"

She took his arm, as naturally as if she owned the deed to it, and shook her head. "No, I want to stay with you."

Holmes looked startled at this blunt declaration which, coming from any other woman would have been past the border of scandalous. He blushed a bit. "I'm sorry, Ivy, you'll have to stay in your own room. But we'll both be down the hall from you, and if you need us you can knock at any time."

I highly doubted that Ivy cared at all about where I was, but I nodded anyway. I hoped she didn't take it upon herself to wake Holmes in the middle of the night out of a simple need to be around him, as I could see she was becoming more attached by the moment.

"Why did you turn down the gas, Ivy?" Holmes asked.

She pursed her lips and shook her head, either to imply she wouldn't tell or that she didn't know. Holmes gave her a stern look. "Ivy, _why_ did you turn down the gas?"

She clutched his arm with both hands and closed her eyes, letting him walk her. Her body seemed to say that she was not going to relent and answer, if she was even cognizant of the reason behind her own actions.

We made the rest of the walk in silence. Mrs. Swanson was happy to put up the girl for the night, and soon we were in the warmth of my room.

"Can you believe that bloody idiot?" It was seldom that Holmes lost his temper, but pacing the floor of my room, he seemed to throb with anger at his treatment at the hands of Godwin. "Imagine him being brass-necked enough to accuse me of parlour tricks and nonsense! I've met some cussed fools In all my years as a consulting detective, I've never met someone so utterly infuriating and I'll be buggered if he succeeds in pulling one over on me. Something is happening here that even he was not expecting, and I must discover what that is."

I chose my words carefully, for I was very near using the same harsh language and commiserating with my friend, but that would only waste valuable time that would be better spent attempting to wade through the mess that was this case.

"His conduct is exasperating, especially given his obvious neglect of Ivy's needs and comforts. Can you imagine a father failing to buy his daughter a coat while they live in New York? I can't see anyone making house in London without a winter coat!"

"Yes and what poppycock was that?" he asked. "Have you heard of any such a condition that keeps you warm at all times?"

I nodded. "Indeed, my late wife suffered from that condition as well. She also endured bouts of fatigue and tremors. I never was able to diagnose her accurately, but I have seen rare cases like this."

Holmes stopped in his tracks and sat down, giving me a searching look. "You've been married before, Watson?" he asked, his voice a practiced neutrality. The anger and energy had seemed to dissipate and now his movements were stiff and controlled, as if he was trying to appear offhand.

I realized that I hadn't ever mentioned my brief marriage to him before. I'd only been wed for two months before I went to war and ended up in Afghanistan, which is exactly where I was when my Anne passed away from an unknown illness. She was always a sickly girl, but her death still came as a great shock to me.

I nodded and briefly explained that it was before the war and that she had departed this life. I didn't wish to speak of it and greatly regretted bringing it up at all.

He scrutinized me from where he sat. "You didn't bring any effects with you to Baker Street that would imply a previous marriage; no pictures, no souvenirs or sentimental objects. You don't wear a ring, nor do I see any indication that you ever did," he catalogued, perhaps trying to reassure himself that he had not overlooked such an important fact.

I shook my head. "I don't wish to speak of it, Holmes."

His jaw twitched faintly before his face shifted into a detached expression. I realized that he was acutely wounded by my reticence, which seemed incongruous considering his own disinclination to open up about his past.

He stood stiffly.

"Holmes-" I started, ready to apologize for brushing him off.

"I'm exhausted, " he declared and moved to his door, without acknowledging that I had started to speak at all. "I'm going to try to find out what Ivy knows tomorrow."

"You think Ivy knows something?"

"I think Ivy knows a great deal."

"And you intend to talk to her tomorrow about it all?" I asked, slightly incredulous that he assumed he could talk to her in any way that would be informative or helpful.

His jaw set determinedly, and he shook his head. "No, I plan to make _her_ talk to _me_."


	16. Sins

Sins

When I descended the stairs the following morning for breakfast at about eight o'clock, Mrs. Swanson was seated, surprisingly, at a corner table with Holmes, speaking comfortably to him in a quiet undertone as the early morning passersby traveled to and fro outside the large window that looked out to Central Park, bundled up tightly against the cold that hadn't been warmed yet by the sun.

"My husband visited New York on occasion for the purpose of business," she was saying as I sidled into an empty seat and took a cup of citrus flavored tea, which I hadn't yet decided if I was fond of or not. "He was born and raised in Nottingham originally but he settled here in New York when he took a position as an overseer for the construction of the new hotel on Broadway, which was never completed." She rose and disappeared for only a moment into the kitchen to retrieve a plate of pancakes that she had been keeping warm for me. "After we were wed," she continued after she'd made her way back to us in the empty dining room and seated herself next to Holmes once again, "he took me to London in the middle of fall as a late honeymoon."

Holmes broke off a small piece of dark forest bread and dipped it into his coffee, thickened substantially with milk. "If it isn't too forward of me," he started, once he'd swallowed, "may I ask you what exactly you were able to see during your short time there?"

She took a piece of the opposite end and munched on it, her posture relaxed and comfortable in the private and secluded room without any other guests to wait upon. "He took me to Hyde and Regents Park. I thought Hyde Park was most interesting," she proclaimed with a smile. "With all the carriages and high class gents and ladies walking down and up it without much purpose except to be seen and make connections with other of the aristocracy. It was entertaining."

Holmes laughed easily. His amusement could be quite genuine when he was at ease. "Yes, well, it is entertaining, especially knowing that not all there are of the aristocracy and I must inform you that not all the purposes being carried out down that row are innocent or merely in the name of hobnobbing."

"Really?" She asked, looking surprised.

He nodded vigorously, always eager for an opportunity to enlighten. "There are assignations in multitudes and some of those lovely and well dressed ladies are of a lower profession, if you will." He tipped an imaginary hat in demonstration. "A simple gesture sometimes serves as a signal that two are making an arrangement."

"My lord, is that so? I must have been completely oblivious. How interesting," she exclaimed, appearing entirely too thrilled by the information.

I felt that in his enthusiasm to pass on a tidbit that, although well known to most, was barely spoken of openly, Holmes had forgotten his manners towards a lady. It was hardly something to speak of in mixed company.

"That cannot be all that you took in," I interrupted before they could delve deeper into specifics. "Surely you saw some other sights?"

"Indeed," she affirmed, "I browsed the British Museum, though I was alone at the time." She crinkled her face in distaste. She hardly seemed the type of woman who enjoyed being alone. "Joseph's late father used to play the cello for the orchestra at the old Imperial Theatre, so we attended a showing there of a concert of Chopin's work played on a full orchestra."

"Chopin has never been as beautiful as it is on Norman-Neruda's violin." That was the first concert I'd attended with Holmes, during that interesting case of Joseph Stangerson and Lucy Ferrier on the great Alkali Plain, in the epicenter of desert heat and tragic love.

"The last night we went to the Thames and walked on the embankment," she recounted, a tad wistfully. "It was very cold so we were utterly alone, but the lights and water were heart stopping and undeniably beautiful in the fog."

"London is wonderful," I agreed fervently. "I remember clearly my first view of the River Thames. It was breathtaking."

"Indeed," Holmes agreed, "though I believe there is nothing more beautiful than the Yorkshire countryside. Do you ever plan to visit again?"

"Oh, I don't imagine I possibly could," she dismissed with a strong gesture. "I only have myself to rely on now, Mr. Holmes. It's a very hard thing to pack up and leave even for a short amount of time. Of course, I would certainly love to visit once again and see more of your country."

Holmes sipped his coffee, which was surely tepid by now. "If you manage back there ever, may I suggest you pay a visit to The Crystal Palace and the Serpentine, and, of course, the galleries. If I may speak freely," he prefaced with a tone of mocking gravity, "I feel I'd be quite justified in saying that your dear husband's negligence to show you those basic London spots borders on blasphemy, Mrs. Swanson."

"Yes, well, that was the least of his sins."

Holmes furrowed his brow and appeared to be about to make some remark, when Ivy bustled down the stairs, her steps heavy and stiff. She looked tired, with lines and circles about her eyes that reminded me, with a strong shock, of her true age. She wore the same pale blue petticoat and blouse that she'd worn the day before, with her hair down and over her shoulders. Even with her vacant look and odd gait, she was still more beautiful than most of the women I'd had the pleasure of meeting in all my days. I knew for a certainty that Holmes would never forget her as well, in spite of the numerous women of exceptional quality who were destined to cross the threshold of his infamous address and permeate his cases.

She loitered about the doorway as Mrs. Swanson departed to fix up a meal for her, her manner implying that she was aware that we wished to speak to the girl about the previous night.

"This is insufferable," Holmes muttered suddenly, his grey eyes keen on the girl at the threshold. "I'm chasing after nothing. I'm no better than those bumbling Scotland Yarders at this moment."

"It's only been – what? A _week_? I would hardly start considering a new career path Holmes," I reasoned with more than a smidge of flippancy.

He waved his unused fork around and raised his eyebrows in blatant mockery. "Very true . . . and I have absolutely nothing solid to go on," he said as we waited for Ivy's company. "I've received all this information but with no clue as to how it all fits together. I've got a suicide two weeks ago, a murder two years ago, an illusive person leaving vaguely threatening letters who has, by all appearances, been killed by my client whom, frankly, I care nothing for and trust even less, what with his depraved personality and pathetic attempt at pseudo decorum and class," he spat in a rambling swelling of words that was most unlike him. He sucked on the side of his mouth with an exaggeratedly bothered sound and bore an intense look into me. "Now Watson, can you see any common thread in all of them?"

I leaned back in the chair and applied myself to thinking it through. "I suppose everything revolves around Mr. Godwin," I supplied, feeling quite dense that I could not think of anything cleverer.

Holmes smiled at my effort, "I was thinking along different lines."

"What do you think they all have in common?"

"They're all connected to _Mrs_. Godwin."

"How does everything concern Mrs. Godwin?"

"Her _murder_ concerned her greatly, for one," he stated dryly, but then shifted uncomfortably when he realized how careless the joke had been. "It's all a circle," he resumed, "Mr. Godwin claims his stalker is Mr. Matthews, who was engaged to Violet Dubois, who was a friend of the late Mrs. Godwin who was murdered. Ms. Dubois complained about Mrs. Godwin's murder investigation, which was handled by Detective Leah, who is good friends with Mr. Godwin."

"I still don't see what it all means."

He sighed loudly as the young lady's peculiar gaze alighted upon us there at the corner table. "I don't either." He paused and rubbed his forehead, obviously troubled by something he wished to say. "I don't mind confessing to you," he started at length, his acerbic voice mellowed and quiet, "I am harboring some very strong qualms about bringing Ivy back to that house anytime in the near future."

"You believe she may be in some sort of danger?" I asked.

He sighed, "It's an unfortunate possibility, and therefore it is something I must consider. I do not wish to share in the guilt that would surely come if anything were to happen to her because of my oversight in putting her in harm's way." He watched her every move and it struck me that Holmes had apparently himself developed an attachment to the girl in reciprocation.

"We do not know if she is even in any danger, and you aren't able to watch her at all times," I attempted to reassure. "You know, Holmes," I started, sensing that he was now considering himself responsible for Ivy's well being and safety, "it is not reasonable for a man to assume responsibilities for another person's actions or misdeeds; for if he carried culpability for one man's sins, then he must for all men's and that is simply too heavy a burden for one man to bear. You cannot change the world or the people in it, especially their intentions and actions."

He graced his half empty food plate with an extremely dark look. "You cannot change the world or the people in it, Watson, but you can protect the pieces of the world and the people that walk it that are dear to you."

His frank admittance of any feeling for another human, even in such vague and indirect terms, was startling. "Sometimes that is even too hard a task to expect of someone," I asserted. My own brother, who had given sway to a life of drink, was a glaring example of my own deficiency to protect the things dear to me, as I was unable to help him overcome his habit, which had in due course killed him.

"Difficulty doesn't absolve you of guilt," he stated firmly. I wondered for a moment if he had not had a similar experience of being unsuccessful in an effort to protect someone in his own life. My own reaction to such feelings was to assure myself and move on; whereas Holmes seemed the type to bear the burden of blame for things he felt he should have been capable of preventing or changing. I knew he was the sort of man to wrest with the feeling of failure in quiet moments when he was allowed to ponder past deeds and experiences.

I hadn't the opportunity or, in all honesty, the courage to question him any more as Ivy had reached us at last, and plopped down in Mrs. Swanson deserted seat without aplomb, even as we stood to greet her. She dug into the remnants of Holmes's food without invitation, also taking his coffee and sipping at it contentedly. Holmes leaned back and watched her closely, taking in her worn appearance and sudden hunger with an unreadable expression.

The detective patted his coat pockets for his cigarettes, and finally rolled one up and inhaled on it deeply, blowing smoke over her head and regarding her intently. "Were you scared at all last night, Ivy?" he finally asked in a conversational tone, toying with the edge of a linen napkin.

She bit into the bread and drowned it with a large gulp of coffee. Patting his arm reassuringly, she shook her head gravely. "There was nothing to be scared of."

I devoted myself furiously to my breakfast in an effort to refrain from breaking into a smile or chuckling at her protective response to Holmes's inquiry. Holmes himself smiled and then leaned forward towards her, his elbows on the table and his manner attentive.

"Why do you say that?" he asked, searching her face even as she lowered it to reach for more bread. "Did you see the man who tried to hurt your father?" It was rare of Holmes to adopt such a stance. I would learn that his usual pose in the comfortable confines of Baker Street as the details of a case were laid before him was habitually relaxed, even nonchalant. It was only in the height of a case, when he was feeling the intense pressure of potential failure bearing down on his back, that he'd be so eager and use his presence to compel data from a person.

It seemed to have no affect upon the peculiar girl. She ignored him; patting her mouth once as she had done that first night we'd met her in an obscure meaning that I hadn't deciphered as of yet, and took up the cup again. Holmes was not to be deterred though, and took her chin in hand and firmly but gently turned her face to his, moving near her and repeating his question, slowly and deliberately.

"Ivy, did you see the man?"

Her answer came as a shock. Instead of showing any signs of intimidation, she inclined her head, closing the small gap between them, and brushed her mouth across his with a feather light but unambiguously intimate gesture.

Holmes immediately drew back, running a slow hand down his face and resting his chin in his palm. He was quiet for a long time, even as Mrs. Swanson refreshed his coffee cup and placed a plate of pancakes in front of Ivy, shooting them both a curious glance. She scurried off quickly, leaving Holmes and Ivy to their strange interplay.

I coughed suddenly, made awkward by her naivety about what she had done. Holmes suddenly seemed at a loss for how to proceed on such an uncertain playing field and quite frankly, he seemed surprised by her forthright interest in him.

"Ivy," I started, laying down my fork and lacing my hands together, struck by a sudden idea that had worked efficiently in times when information was needed from my nephews, who had adamantly refused to tattle on one another, "even if you cannot confide in us about something - perhaps because someone has told you not to say anything or has frightened you into silence - you can still provide us with . . . clues, if you will. In this way, no one would ever know that we had learned anything from you and you needn't be worried."

Her strange eyes lit up a bit at this suggestion. She gave me her attention, tearing her eyes away from Holmes, whom she'd been staring at unflinchingly after her impromptu kiss. "Like a game?"

"Yes," I responded.

"Mama used to play games with me. She left me notes to find my gifts," she informed us softly, her hand rising to grasp the locket that was hidden in the lace top of her blouse. She reached into her bodice and extracted the object, biting on it gently in worry. Finally she shook her head, her expression resolute. "I do not wish to spoil it."

Holmes sighed, but looked keenly interested. "Spoil what?"

She gnawed a bit longer at her keepsake, watching Holmes with a tiny frown on her pretty face, her manner strangely contemplative and confused. I wondered if she were deciding to confide in us.

After a moment, she laid her locket down on her chest and reached for his hand where it rested on the table. She fell short and lingered near it but was suddenly apprehensive about touching him, which seemed peculiar after her boldness of a few moments ago.

"Do you not like that?" she asked him.

He gave her a puzzled look. "Like what?"

"This." Her fingers came up to gesture to his lips, touching him only briefly before he clasped her hand gently around her palm and moved it away from his face. He held it there in the air, his fingers kneading absently into the back of her knuckles as he seemed to struggle with a resolution.

"It's not proper for you to do, Ivy," he, at length, admonished gently, "to a man you aren't courting or married to. Hasn't your father taught you that?" His last words receded into that sometimes strident and harsh tone he could assume when he was especially put upon or annoyed.

She pouted out her full bottom lip, looking charmingly petulant. "Papa does that," she defended.

The air suddenly grew oppressive. My stomach churned strongly for a sickening moment. My mouth opened in shock as Holmes kneaded her hand with increasing strength, attempting to curtail the anger I could see rising dangerously in his grey eyes.

"Does he?" he asked, his voice deceptively level and calm. He released her hand and she picked apart her pancakes, cutting them into even triangles meticulously, as if oblivious to Holmes's growing ire.

"Holmes-" I started, after I'd regained my senses. I wasn't sure exactly what she'd meant by her words, and I now worried that it was imperative to take the proper steps so as not to put her in more danger and somewhere, deep in my mind, I hoped we were drastically misinterpreting what she was saying to us.

"I buy flowers today," she cut me off, placing her fork on the table next to her plate and putting her hands in her lap, signaling that she was quite bored with her meal.

Holmes leveled a steady eye at me. He looked, in that moment when the lines around his mouth deepened and his lips settled in a tight line, to be much older than his years. His displeasure darkening his eyes, he nodded at me and turned back to her, his face brightening with false cheer. "Would you mind terribly if we accompany you to the flower shop?"

She spread her hands helplessly, "Papa hasn't given me money."

"That's quite all right; I can spare a bit of change for the purchase of a few flowers as a present to a lovely lady. How about you, Watson? Are you willing to part with your pocket book for Miss Ivy?"

"I can afford a few _fleurs du terre_," I answered as we rose. Despite his facade of brevity, Holmes tossed his napkin forcefully onto the table and nearly stormed out of the dining room ahead of us.

Ivy hurried to reach his side, catching his upper sleeve possessively in the tight grasp of her small fist. "I want to walk with you," she whispered, her dark voice suddenly small and hesitant, as if she felt his anger was at her.

He acquiesced, guiding her fingers about his arm, and smiling weakly at her. The coldness I saw in the depth of his eyes as our gazes met for a moment above her head is something I will never quite forget.


	17. Heaven

Heaven

The broad street was relatively quiet with a few meager shoppers wandering about. A number of shops were open for business while, through the windows of others, one could see the dark shadows of the owners preparing for the day. Amongst the establishments, it was obvious that many shops were differing in age. The older shops were used, the paint faded and muted, the door hinges rusted and worn out, while the younger were almost uncomfortably immaculate.

Holmes and Ivy walked in silence. For a moment they looked as ordinary as any couple that may have passed by on a daily walk; she leant on him, an action that hid her atypical gait and made her seem wholly ordinary. His silent attentiveness was characteristic of most beaus', while her obvious adoration was unmistakable.

Anyone who knew Sherlock Holmes, though, could see that he was holding his chin a bit higher than was customary for him. When deep in his own mind and thoughts, he held his chin down, with an abstract look in his eye and a relaxed posture that bordered on imprudence. When he was riled or exasperated, his stance stiffened, his head raised as if trying to put on a pretense of being collected together and unaffected; this was how he appeared now.

Casting glances at the girl attached to his arm, Holmes seemed at a loss as to what to say to her. The startling revelation we'd heard during breakfast hovered above us like the oppressive weight of a giant palm, crushing us with a slow mercilessness

I decided to break the silence with a harmless inquiry in hopes of putting on an air of normalcy. "Are you painting anything as of now, Ivy?"

She tore her eyes away from the pebbled sidewalk and fairly smirked at me; an odd and unsettling look for her youthful face.

"Yes. I'm painting three pictures. Mr. Holmes, my mamma, and this . . . ," she flung her finger in the direction of my face. My initial confusion gave way to amusement when I realized what she meant.

"You're painting my mustache?" I asked, a bit incredulously. I fingered the object of interest and stole a glance at Holmes. This exchange, which normally would have done wonders for his mood - seeing as he derived much enjoyment from my discomfort - affected him not a whit. That well-formed and wide mouth which so usually carried a striking look of pride, sarcasm and well-used superiority, lacked its usual negligence and mocking, and was now hewn about the sides with grim and displeased lines. It was so sobering to see that my mirth immediately paled and my fingers pulled at the part of my lip nervously as I averted my eyes back to my feet.

"You're painting your mum, Ivy?" Holmes inquired softly. "Do you miss your mum?" he continued after she'd nodded solemnly.

I had a difficult time deciding how I felt about this line of inquiry, seeing as how delicate the young girl was, but decided to hold my tongue and let him be. I would come to learn as the years passed that Holmes was skilled in the art of questioning, and seemed to be able to read the moods and fancies of those around him with enough accuracy to pose the right questions at exactly the right time.

"Yes," Ivy answered, a small smile brightening her face. "Mamma was pretty, like flowers."

"Was she pretty on the inside too?" the detective prodded.

"Oh yes," the girl nodded eagerly, "Her soul was beautiful. Mamma took me to the soup kitchen to feed the sad people. Papa used to say it was bad for me; that my heart would become . . . ," she seemed to struggle for the right word, "bleeding." She looked at Holmes as if for affirmation to this statement and he nodded encouragingly.

"I would spoon soup and the sad people talked to me about things. Papa said mamma was _stupid_," she whispered the word, "and asked her how I would make it when she taught me to be so nice to the contemp - contemptible ones. Mamma said she didn't know but '_she'll get along in heaven better than you or me' _she told him". Ivy's voice rose when she mimicked her mother and the soft and dark characteristic of her voice took on a soothing quality that was peculiar.

She was silent for a while and then her tiny fist tightened around the cloth of Holmes's arm and her bottom lip fairly trembled. "I don't spoon soup anymore . . . so I won't go see mamma in heaven."

"Oh good Lord!" I couldn't restrain myself from exclaiming at the pitiful sound of this personal judgment. To hear those pessimistic words from such an angelic figure was distressing in the extreme. I passed a hand over my brow in consternation and fought for words that were adequate.

"Nonsense, Ivy," Holmes stated faintly but with firmness. He leaned down to her ear and whispered a familiar verse to her, "_'God is not unrighteous so as to forget your works and the acts you performed in his name_'." The heavenly quality of voice Holmes could assume when comforting his clients seemed more fitting for a man in priestly garb than a detective, though I knew he would have found the mere idea to be ludicrous.

The words seemed to have an affect, desired or not, and she blushed hotly at Holmes's proximity and apparently forgot her previous sorrows enough to duck her head and smile shyly at him from beneath her long, lowered lashes.

"When you finish with your paintings, would it be presumptuous to assume I'll be allowed to view them?"

She shrugged, as if what happened to her work after she was well and done with it mattered very little to her.

We had approached the flower shop, which stood across the street from the butcher's. A small bell tied to the doorknob tinkled as we entered and a plain but smartly dressed young girl smiled warmly at us and shouted a familiar greeting to Miss Ivy, who didn't respond. The shop girl seemed to expect this and went about her work without offense.

As we passed through the doorway, I felt the firm grasp of Holmes's hand on my elbow in a reassuring squeeze, but once I'd turned to regard him, he was walking across the shop towards Ivy, where she stood by a small arrangement of light colored roses. Holmes could obviously discern that the day was taking a bit of a toll on my emotions, though I found it hard to believe that he was not just as negatively affected. But Holmes, to my never-ending admiration and frustration, was adept at concealing his feelings behind a dense wall of practicality and calm.

I resolved myself, feeling strengthened by Holmes's subtle but apparent concern for me, and made my way to where they stood, discussing roses. Holmes was educating her in the symbolism of the various colors, as Ivy stood attentive.

"I want red roses," she commanded. I smiled at Holmes, who pretended admirably not to catch on the meaning of her request. The color wasn't in the arrangement and I offered to speak to the lady at the desk about it, leaving Holmes with Ivy. I was hopeful that he would be able to gather more information from her if left alone.

The lady in charge of the shop smiled as I approached. She was fair skinned with golden locks that darkened near her round face.

"Hello, there," I greeted her. "Do you have any red roses?"

She gave a once over, smiling the whole while, before nodding. "Of course- they're more expensive so we keep them in the cold room. Give me a moment." With a backward glance, she disappeared into a small room in the back. I recognized immediately the telling signs of a woman who was interested in a man. I felt a blush of shyness and glanced over to Holmes who was giving me a decidedly odd look, but kept his distance.

The girl returned with a bundle of roses in her arms and handed them over to me. I thanked her and began to move off but she stopped me.

"Ivy doesn't usually want red roses." She paused and I could see that she was merely looking for words to say to keep me there. "She had a young man once, a few years ago, who use to buy her red roses, but after he mother died, he wasn't allowed to come around any more."

My desire to leave was suddenly quelled with the thought that this woman might have some information that would be valuable or new for us. I confess to a certain desire, also, to gain a little respect in my companion's eyes by discovering a clue myself without his guidance.

"Is that so?" I asked nonchalantly and relaxed my posture enough to put her completely at ease, and perhaps even to imply that I enjoyed her company. Not that this was a complete deception; she was a lovely woman, but under these circumstances I wasn't quite up to idle chatter.

"Yes." She smiled and then gestured at my friend where he stood, seemingly paying us no mind. "Are you two the detectives that came in from England?"

"No, Mr. Holmes there is a detective but I'm more of an observer. I am not up to the task of investigating, I'm afraid," I answered diffidently.

She smiled slyly; in a way that was most beguiling and unlike anything I'd seen on the face of any respectable English lady. "Really? You seem mighty smart to me. I think you're just being modest."

"No, no," I waved away, seeing that my humility seemed an attraction for her, and deciding to use it to my advantage. I'm sure the reader will find this to be quite abominable on my part, but I'm sure my good friend, who is so admired by many, would not have been above it himself. "My friend has been looking into the matters at the Godwin house," I offered solicitously.

"I've heard of the commotion going on over there. Not as bad as when the Missus was . . . you know," she trailed off awkwardly.

"Were you here when that happened?"

"Oh yes, I own this shop," she explained proudly. "It was passed to me from my father. I was here when it happened. Poor Violet, Mrs. Godwin's closest friend, was a horrible mess. She used to sit in that corner there," she pointed to a place near the large window, "just playing with the flowers. I let her, even though I was shorthanded because Augustine, my brother, went to work at the butcher's around the same time."

smiled. "Isn't that always the way with family? Leaving you when you most need them?" I teased lightly.

She laughed a very sincere and deep laugh and shook her head. "Oh, he was a good brother, but Mr. St. Clare needed another meat cutter once his up and disappeared."

"His meat cutter disappeared?" I latched onto this information; I knew not why, but Holmes always said that even the smallest detail could be of great importance and I resolved to get as much from this girl as I was able, and relate it all perfectly to the detective to sift over.

"We all assumed he merely ran away. He was a sweet boy, or man, rather, and no one thinks for a second that anyone would wish him harm. Anyway," she resumed, dismissing the matter, "Violet eventually bucked up and got back to her old self a bit but then a few weeks ago . . ." She swallowed, and suddenly looked terribly heartbroken. "I don't know what got into her, but I caught her crying in the cold room over some geraniums and when I asked her what was wrong, she left and never came back then - are these for you, sweetie?" she interrupted herself as Ivy intruded on the conversation, coming up beside me and stroking the petals with a delicate tenderness.

Holmes stepped up to the counter with a deprecating grin. "I think I'm the elected buyer."

After purchasing the bouquet, which Holmes paid for in full despite the steep cost, we made our way outside the shop and began our walk back to Ivy's estate. We were a silent trio the whole way there, though there was no shortage of giggles as Ivy fastened a rose stem behind one ear and watched herself in every shop window we passed. Holmes showed a queer tolerance for the dallying, though I knew patience was not one of the few virtues he possessed.

When we finally approached her door, Holmes stopped on the walk and stared up at the imposing flat front of the home with a strong sort of aversion. He grasped Ivy's elbow as she started to cross the street to her door and held onto her for a great while, looking for all the world as if he wished to say something but could not find the right words.

After an interval, he dropped her arm and settled on a vague, "Be careful."

She laughed at him, as if he were a child, and pulled a rose from the bundle in her arms, pushing it into his hand as she continued to smile gaily at him.

She patted his face in that clumsy way of hers and repeated his words to him, laughing to herself before disappearing across the lane and into her house

I left Holmes to his thoughts as we leisurely turned around to return to our lodgings. Soon Holmes roused himself from his thoughts and gave me an appraising look. "You and the flower girl seemed quite taken with each other. Are you searching for a new Mrs. Watson? I think an American would suit you."

"Actually," I said a bit haughtily. "She had a bit of information." I related my whole exchange with the young lady, to which Holmes listened attentively.

"Well, that's interesting," was all he said once I was finished. I was expecting a more effusive thanks, but resigned myself to the fact that he at least did not outright dismiss all I'd told him as insignificant.

When I realized he would not speak again, I sighed loudly and decided a different tactic. "I'm beginning to see your point about motive; without it, crime is indecipherable. I can't think of any motive for this . . . whatever this may be."

He stood in front of a barren shop window for a moment before leaning back upon it and fishing out his silver cigarette case from his coat pocket. He loosened his scarf a bit and stuck a match, puffing a bit on his smoke as he lit it.

"In my experience," he started, tapping some ash out onto the ground, "there are four common motivators for murder, in which all specific rationale fall into: protection of another, self-defense, revenge, and self-preservation."

I took an offered cigarette, needful of something to warm me as he continued with the air of man who was speaking more to himself than to his company.

In my estimation, self-defense is an act of violence committed to protect your own physical person against someone threatening you harm, and takes place in a moment of passion. Self-preservation is an act of violence upon someone to protect your way of life and comfort and does not necessarily take place in a moment of passion. We see this often in the East End and Whitechapel, when witnesses to crimes are snuffed out by the guilty parties to keep them from speaking out."

We fell silent for a bit. I watched a young lady as she wandered into an antique store, a portrait in her hands. She was obviously looking for a frame to suit it. She was very pretty, with brandy colored hair and a petite frame.

"And do you condone self-defense?" I asked my silent companion as I tore my eyes from the door in which the lovely vision had disappeared. When I turned back to Holmes I saw that he had been observing her as well, though not with as much admiration as was assuredly glowing from my eyes.

"I condone nothing without the full and true account of events." He squashed out his cigarette beneath the toe of his boot. "While I was living on Montague Street," he continued, "a young lady came to my rooms to ask me to look into the death of her sister. The gentleman who killed her claimed that he awoke one morning to find her standing at the foot of his bed, a pistol trained on him. He fought with her and in the struggle, she was wounded in the heart."

"Did he fabricate the entire thing?"

"No. It was all true. I discovered though, in my investigation, that he had been blackmailing the young woman with a document proving she had borrowed money by forging her husband's signature in order to help a poor relation. Her killer had threatened to tell her husband and ruin her marriage if she did not pay him a monthly sum. This, of course, forced her to covertly borrow more money and wind herself even deeper into his web."

"Did you tell the courts what you knew?"

He blew out a breath of air; it evaporated into a burst of fog. "No, it would not have changed their innocent verdict in any case, and it would have merely subjected her to more scrutiny and pained her family. I had a private discussion with her husband, or her widower, rather, and told him the entire story. I wasn't surprised when he declared that he would have forgiven her for her first minor offense, had she only told him. It was her own fear that prevented it from ending before it even began. Had she come to me, I would have advised her to come clean in the first place. Unfortunately, she did not come to me . . ."

He trailed off, squinting lightly from the glare of the sun bursting through the clouds and effectively hiding his expression from me.


	18. Fallible Hearts

Fallible Hearts

After the morning we'd had with Ivy, and the subsequent idling afternoon, I had expected Holmes to be unbearably restless. Instead, he retired to bed soon after twilight fell and was near impossible to rouse the next day.

I had been about that morning while he slept and managed to secure two tickets to a small independent theatre's showing of _Therese Raquin _at noon a performance I'd heard Holmes comment on in passing. I was hoping to take his mind away from the recent unpleasantness, and when I finally managed to wake him from his deep slumber, he was relatively open to the idea of an afternoon at the theatre.

I was very surprised then, when midway to the show, he suddenly banged his hand against the top of the four-wheeler and ordered the cabbie to stop. Swinging himself out of the door, he turned to apologize to me.

"I'm sorry, my dear Watson, but I've just realized that there is something imperative that I must do."'

"For the case?" I inquired.

"Yes, though you mustn't worry yourself over it, it's probably just a trifle, but I won't enjoy myself as long as it's on my mind, and I'll be very poor company to you."

Before I could protest or offer to come along, he'd tossed a substantial note at the cabbie and ordered him on.

I took in the show alone, but my mind wasn't on it in the least. After shopping a bit for a gift for Mrs. Hudson, I arrived back at the inn and sought out the warm conversation of Mrs. Swanson. To my surprise, she was waiting for me.

"I was wondering when you'd return," she commented, and then searched behind me for my absent companion. "Where is Mr. Holmes?"

I spread my hands helplessly. "I wish I knew but he has a queer way of disappearing before you can blink."

"Oh, well, Ivy visited, she was looking for him. She said she wanted to say goodbye and, from what I could tell, wished for me to give this to him." She held out a long stemmed scarlet rose, one eyebrow quirked in amusement and curiosity.

I frowned and took the gift. "Say goodbye? Is she under the impression that we're departing today?"

She shrugged and then leaned on the counter. "She really is smitten with your friend."

"Is that a first for her?" I inquired. "I heard tale somewhere that she had a young man who bought her roses before."

"There was a young architect, worked for Smith and Mason, who came by and visited her for awhile. Her mother was agreeable to it and there was talk that he would marry her."

"Marry her? She doesn't seem . . .," I searched for the correct words, "quite easy to become close to."

"He got on well with her, actually. They communicated well, I heard, or as well as can be expected from a girl in her condition. He seemed to genuinely care for her."

"Did he treat her well?"

"Surprisingly well. There was a great deal of respect in the way he behaved towards her; I think he understood her in some way. But then her mother died and her father wouldn't allow him around anymore."

"Was she upset?"

Mrs. Swanson nodded, scrunching her nose up unhappiness. "More than a bit," she affirmed sympathetically. "She sulked for a long while. It was a bad time for her; first her mother left her and then she was barred from the only other person she seemed to get on with."

"How horrid," I commiserated. "Where is this architect now?"

"Married and in California."

She offered me the afternoon papers and undertook to make me a light lunch of tea and cucumber sandwiches. I ate in the solitude of my room and read, attempting not to nod off in my chair.

I heard shuffling on the stairs and recognized the slow and indolent tread of my returning lodge-mate.

Holmes came through our adjoining door without knocking. I lowered my paper. "Where did you go in such a hurry?"

"The butcher's . . ." he trailed off, removing his coat and throwing it impetuously onto my bed.

"In the mood for a rack of lamb?" I teased, seeing his inattentive air and distracted look. He loosened his cravat and sat on the small divan in the corner of the room.

"Mutton, actually," he answered absently and scratched his head, mussing his hair.

I smiled and redirected my attention to my paper. From the corner of my eye I could see him removing his cravat and unbuttoning his collar and cuffs. He leaned forward, an elbow on one knee and, staring intently at the carpet, began pulling at his bottom lip in thought. I recognized the look as introspective, but I noticed his eyes were lacking that almost feverish aspect they possessed when he was usually making progress in a case. This almost vacant contemplation was not a good sign and worried me of an upcoming degeneration of mood.

"Apparently, Miss Ivy used to have a suitor," I decided to interrupt him, risking his anger but hopefully saving him from running his mind into the ground, like a greyhound chasing its tail, with fruitless reflections.

To my surprise, my intrusion did not upset him at all. He glanced up at me and brought a foot over his knee to undo his bootlaces. "Is that so?"

"The same year her mother died."

He flipped off the boot, letting it fall wherever it flew. "Who?

I moved my eyes from my paper, glad that I'd interested him but trying valiantly not to let on to it. "A young architect. He's married to someone else now." I gave him a brief version of the tale Mrs. Swanson had related to me.

After ridding himself of his other boot, he leaned back on the divan with the air of a man greatly exhausted. "What do you think of that, Watson?" he inquired vaguely.

"Of what?"

His leg had taken up a distracting fidget that I attempted to ignore, though it called to mind a vision of him as a young boy being told to sit still.

"Someone having a romantic interest in young Ivy?" he clarified, his eyes on the corner of the ceiling and his knee still moving rapidly back and forth.

I shrugged, turning the page of the newspaper and shaking it out. "She's well past the normal age for young girls-"

"Yes," he cut in, "but _mentally_ . . . does it not strike a bad chord with you that some man would want to marry such a childlike person . . . her physical maturity aside. He'd be more a father than a husband to her."

I couldn't help but laugh. "Most men behave as a father to their wives anyhow. I daresay most men desire a wife whom they can think of as a child without a mind of their own." My own wife had been a decidedly capable young girl, smart and mature, which was one of the many beautiful qualities that had lured me to fall in love with her.

"So you believe most men want a woman in body but a child in mind?" he summed up, a small smile twitching at the side of his mouth.

"That does seem to be the trend."

He was silent for a bit, seemingly lost in his own thoughts. "Do you think Ivy is a child in mind? In your medical opinion?"

I took a deep breath. "In some respects, but I think she's very clever, perhaps more clever than most."

"Do you think she's capable of romantic attachments?" At my incredulous and blatantly teasing look I sent his way over the top of the agony columns, he sighed and went on, "I mean _love_, Watson; a feeling beyond . . . infatuation."

"Who's to say what 'love' is? You believe you're in love, you feel you're in love, then what more do you need to be in love?"

He stared at me, apparently not interested in my philosophizing. I shrugged and continued more casually, "Who knows what goes on in that mind of hers."

He didn't venture to speculate on that. Hefting himself up to grab his discarded frock coat, he groped around for his pocket and retrieved his cigarette case. Putting one to his lips, he leaned his head back onto the divan and lit a match, lifting it to light his smoke and puffing fumes into the air.

I waved my hand around, trying to dispel the billows coming my way, though he didn't see my exaggerated gesture with his head tilted back. "Must you insist on smoking in enclosed rooms? It's quite suffocating."

"I can't think without my smokes, Watson," he answered without moving, save for his hand to his mouth. "A peculiarity of mine. Genius must be given its leeway," he explained dryly between puffs.

I cast my eyes to the heavens at his melodrama. "A sort of divine madness," I murmured disparagingly.

His Adam's apple bobbed as he inhaled deeply and spoke. "Was that a subtle implication that I'm insane?"

"I'm merely saying your _genius_ could show a little consideration and open a window before it indulges in its vice."

"It's vice? You make it sound as if there is only one." His tone was indiscernible, and I decided to assume he was jesting.

"I certainly hope so. Though I do wish you'd replace it with a more harmless hobby," I advised, letting a medical, and slightly reprimanding, tone creep into my voice.

He sighed long-sufferingly. "Need I remind you, my dear Watson, that you have been known to indulge in the occasional cigarette as well?"

"But not to the point of self-poisoning!"

He replied acerbically, "Your concern is humbling."

I shrugged. "I merely fear for your dental well-being," I tossed off carelessly.

"I thank you wholeheartedly, but my dental well-being is quite . . . _well."_

"Indeed," I agreed, "How do you manage that?" I asked curiously. I wasn't an expert in dentistry, but I'd seen enough people in my medical career to know that much damage could be wrought to the aesthetic allure of a person's teeth by simply too much hard candy, yet my companion and lodge mate smoked incessantly and not one mark that was common to smokers had yet to show on his person.

He shrugged. "I wash my mouth out with brandy."

I sighed and clutched the arm of my seat as I made a silent prayer for patience. Holmes paid no mind to my irritation, staring unflappably at the ceiling. I had learned early on in our acquaintance that Holmes had been excluded from a club that he had been half-heartedly involved in. When asked why, he had told me derisively that the men had been very put out by being disagreed with on any point and seemed to think that merely belonging to a club hid them from those with differing opinions. I believed him at the time, but I was beginning to wonder if it were not his stubborn insistence on answering every question with as an aggravating or dismissive reply he could summon that led his fellow members to ask him to leave. Of course, I fully believed that his exclusion was entirely planned on his part, seeing as he was not comfortable in such manly and garrulous groups and seemed to find the relative intelligence of such ensembles to be tiring.

"What did you learn at the butcher's?"

He snorted loudly and in a very ungentlemanly manner. "Not much from Mr. St. Clare, whose name is entirely misleading, by the way. He was not very apt to answer questions unless you were purchasing from him."

"You should've, if it were to mean more information."

He lowered his head only enough to give me a horribly affronted look, his cigarette poised in the air still. "I don't jump when I'm told to, even if there is a nice treat in store." He glared at me, as if I'd suggested something entirely emasculating, but I merely turned another page, though I wasn't reading, and pretended not to notice him.

After a stretch of silence in which he realized I was not going to respond in kind, he sighed and let his head fall back once more. "I talked up the new meat cutter, the brother of your smitten flower girl, instead," he continued in a less snappish vein. "All he could tell me though was that the previous meat cutter disappeared around the same time Mrs. Godwin was murdered. Besides that, he knows nothing."

"What did you expect him to know?" I asked absently.

"Nothing. I was _hoping_ he'd know everything and I could finally put an end to this infernal whodunit."

He stretched his shoulders cat-like and flung his arms out across the back of the sofa, his movements almost lethargically content. He appeared a little too exhausted for his story of only visiting the butchers to be completely true. I wondered what else he'd been up to in the five hours he'd been absent.

"By the way, Mrs. Swanson informed me that Ivy came here looking for you."

"Mmmmmm . . ." he murmured, "Was something amiss?"

"Apparently she wanted to say goodbye . . . and give you a red rose as a romantic token of her affection," I declared with a melodramatic flare.

"Goodbye?"

"She's an odd girl."

"Indeed."

I folded my paper and rested it on the settee next to my chair. "I've been thinking -"

"Good, I encourage that."

"-Perhaps we could do something for her," I continued smoothly.

'In what way?" He sounded weary.

"I was hoping we could arrange to get her away from here," I urged. "It wouldn't be hard to orchestrate."

He sighed and answered in a soft voice, "The thought had crossed my mind Watson but, at risk of being overly pragmatic, it wouldn't be possible legally."

"But the abuse!" I exclaimed.

"The _rumors_ of abuse, you mean. Rumors and scandal are not enough to condemn a man; a _woman_, it would be more than enough - but a man? No, we won't be able to convince a court to hand her over. And if we did, whom would they hand her over to? You? Me?" His logic was annoying in its simplicity, but I wasn't prepared to let go of the subject.

"She's not a child."

"Exactly, but she can't function on her own. The only recourse I could see is stealing her away, but I don't want to add kidnapping to my growing list of criminal acts."

"Even if it saved her?"

He rubbed his eyes tiredly. "More thought should go into this, Watson. Perhaps some arrangement could be made with someone who would be willing to take her in. But make no mistake," he clarified eagerly, his voice firm in its resolve and sincerity, "I want her away from him just as much as you do."

"Well," I said at length, "Perhaps our would-be-killer will solve the problem for us if we take too long to unearth these answers."

He started to laugh at my cruel joke and then suddenly sat up as straight as a ramrod. "My god," he whispered, "I am utterly stupid." He dropped his head into his hands and let out a stream of curses and imprecations against himself that would make a sailor flinch.

I reached out a concerned hand to grasp his shoulder but let it drop back to my lap when I realized he was laughing. "What's gotten into you?"

He jumped up, grinding out his cigarette in the ashtray next to my chair. "We've made one mistake here, Watson," he began, a spark in his eye and that familiar tremor in his movements that told me his mind was going full steam and moving forward.

"We made the mistake of assuming Ivy isn't aware of what's happening around her," he finished, clasping his hands together and bringing them to his mouth, his face scrunched up in either thought or displeasure.

I stood. "You think Ivy knows what's going on?"

"Oh, I think she knows." He wagged a finger at me knowingly. "In fact, I think it goes beyond _knowing_."

Realization flashed on me like a suddenly lit gaslight. "Holmes! I can't believe you'd even entertain that thought! That child is not trying-"

"There are two things that I've seen come from abusive situations . . .," he interrupted, as if I'd never spoken. He began pacing quickly, his route taking him from my room to his own where, after eagerly following him, he near ran into me once he'd turned to pace back the way he came. We made a few more circuitous routes like that before I decided to stand aside in a safer spot near the threshold and let him pass by.

"Two things," he continued, "that - had I not been distracted - I would have considered immediately of Ivy. Two things that I've seen maltreated victims do in an effort to escape their treatment." He enumerated on his fingers, "either, the one abused kills their abuser or they kill themselves."

"Holmes . . .," I drew his name out slowly, warning him against the path his mind was taking him; a path I refused to follow him down. He passed me to pace into my room.

"Well, how would you react, doctor?" he barked as he passed me once again to pace back into his own. "If you were emotionally or physically abused with no recourse or escape? How viciously would you lash out if you were as horribly violated as this girl has been? Do you think she's less capable of pain or shame? She's isn't." He shook his dark head emphatically. "In fact, she may be even more sensitive to it than we are."

"That young girl did not try to shoot her father." He passed me once more, disappearing for a moment and the reappearing.

"No," he agreed, tapping a long finger against his chin in thought. "She merely signaled for the shooter to do so."

"You think she's an accomplice?" I asked to his back as he swiveled on his heel to cross the threshold once more.

"She turned the gas down and up . . .," he answered absently, more to himself than to me. He had reentered his own chamber but had now turned to cross into the adjoined room once more.

I followed him.

"Would you stop pacing so?" I snapped, pushing the door to our connected quarters closed before he could step through. It startled him and I was quite certain had I waited a mere second later to do so, he would not have stopped in time to avoid running that Roman nose of his right into the wood. He glared at me, as if I'd broken his train of thought and went to stand in the middle of the elegant circle-shaped throw rug at the foot of his bed. Whether consciously or unconsciously, he had taken his place in the perfect area to symbolize where he thought he stood in the world - the center of everything.

"The meat cutter disappeared at the same time . . ." After making a concerted and, for him, admirable attempt at standing still, he reverted once again to pacing in small circle, somehow narrowly avoiding running his hip into the footboard on each rotation.

"The meat cutter?" I repeated.

"He's the mysterious variable, Watson. He's our shooter."

"Why?"

"He's trying to protect her."

I rubbed my temple. "How do you propose to know that?"

"It fits," he dismissed, still pacing in that irritating way of his.

"_So_? Her old beau would have just as much motive, or me, or you or . . . or Mrs. Swanson!"

"No, her old beau is married now."

I affected an air of placidity, deciding to humor him. "So why does it have to be the meat cutter? I'm on tenterhooks waiting for your reasoning."

He stopped moving and gave me his full attention. "There was a man with Mrs. Godwin in the park; there was a man at that window that I chased; there was a man who shot at Godwin through his library window. We know there is a _man_. Our absent meat cutter suddenly vanished at the same time Mrs. Godwin is shot down. It fits."

"So?" I counter argued. "How many other people left town about the same time? Why could it not be one of them?"

"It's not."

"Why? Because it's convenient for you? Just because it fits, doesn't mean it's the right piece, and if you force it into place, Holmes, you might finish the puzzle but it won't look right."

He gave me a vaguely disdainful look. "One really shouldn't undertake the task of constructing a metaphor unless they have the ingenuity to think of something original."

Once again, he disappeared into my room, this time with a purposeful stride. I sat heavily on the edge his bed, waiting for him to reemerge. "I'm merely trying to warn you," I said as he came into view, his frock coat in his hands. "If this is true, where has this man been?"

He felt around the material of his coat. "I don't know where he is -"

"_No_, in terms of this case. All of a sudden -"

"It's not all of a sudden," he cut me off, throwing his jacket onto his bed after failing to find whatever object he was looking for, and making a vicious chopping motion with his hand as if to signal the end of his patience with my statement.

"He was here from the beginning," he continued. "Where did we see Ivy that day we went to meet Mr. Matthews?"

I watched him as he opened his nightstand and searched about through his cufflinks and matches. Finally I relented, answering begrudgingly, "At the butcher's."

"Exactly, and she said she was allowed to go there with her mother. Ergo, she had gone there with her mother. Ergo, her mother must have made the acquaintance of this man." He closed his drawer with a huff and started a search among his pillows and coverlets.

I moved off the bed as he rummaged abound where I sat. "Even so," I compromised, watching him curiously, "let's say Ivy and this enigmatic meat cutter are planning to kill Godwin. How does that explain the initial mystery? The one we were called to investigate? The letters? The murder of Mr. Matthews? How does that fit?"

He resorted to lifting up the mattress and peering under it. His voice was muffled when he answered. "I don't have all the pieces yet, in keeping with your brilliant metaphor, Watson, but the edges are connected together and I'm quite certain I know what the picture is."

"You're certain?"

"I may be mistaken, Watson. I admit it." He glanced up at me, a small smile playing around the corner of his mouth. "And if I am, I'd ask you not to advertise it. It would be embarrassing enough that you would have to see me err, Watson, and to know once and for all that I am not immune to such failings."

"I've seen you in error before, Holmes. You just tend to _forget_ those instances, as you do your failings," I reminded sharply.

"So now I'm insane and forgetful?" he asked despairingly and then let out a loud exclamation of triumph, shoving his hands between the mattresses and pulling out his timepiece. He dusted it off and opened it.

"What are you doing?"

"Checking the time. We have an appointment."

"Where?"

"At the Godwin estate. We should leave a little before nightfall, since that is when it will happen. "

"What will happen?"

"Now, now, Watson." He wagged a mocking finger at me. "I can't spell it out for you. If I did, and I happened to be in the wrong concerning some minor detail, you would find me out and my air of mystery would diminish in your eyes. Better to keep you in the dark and, after the facts, be able to claim knowledge of them all along."

"You're brilliance is astounding," I responded dryly.

"Yes, yes, I know."


	19. Crimes of Passion

Crimes of Passion

Holmes brought up some warm milk with nutmeg and cinnamon upon my request. Then the next hour was spent in taut silence. Holmes quit his infernal pacing but exchanged it for staring out the inn window into the grey snow and dirty russet brick of the next door building, Ivy's sentimental flowery token twirling around in his nimble fingers. I sat in the relative comfort of the basket seat and absently watched the whirling blur of red in Holmes' large hand as the rose went round and round. The urge to speak and break through the stillness of the chamber room was potent but there seemed to be a strange air hovering about that discouraged any disturbance. Holmes was being his usual reticent self and refused to elaborate on what we were waiting for or what was going through that sharp mind of his as he stood nearly immovable and deeply abstracted.

I myself felt a strong and bewildering sense of anxiousness. The reason for this was unknown even to me. The human mind possesses a queer and unfathomable way of sensing danger even in the absence of any outward evidence of such. Despite being distracted, however, my imperturbable companion did not seem to be exhibiting any signs of nervousness. In fact, upon being informed that I had not brought my revolver with me to the States, he'd actually smiled one of his rare but sincere smiles and waved the notion off. Instead of reassuring me, this only made me feel more foolish for my apprehension and coupled my fear of the unknown with the more irrational fear of letting Holmes know how uneasy I was. Holmes was not an insulting man, but I dreaded the very notion of falling short in his eyes and risking the possibility of being excluded from future excursions due to my nerves.

Finally, Holmes stirred. The shuffle of his heavily booted feet against the downy carpet broke suddenly through the ticking of the muted grandfather clock emanating from down below. I watched him place the delicate flower on top of the cherry mahogany case that held his precious violin, giving the crimson rose bud a few last soft taps, watching the petals bounce under his deft finger. Smoothing his wine-colored cravat and adjusting his cuffs with sudden focus, he turned to look at me for the first time in an hour and in his wintry grey eyes I could see that familiar spark of spirit like an iridescent candlewick.

"It's time." He moved off without another word, knowing I would follow without question. I rose, patted the coat of my jacket where my revolver was heavily absent and resisted the fervent impulse to swear. Despite Holmes' assurances, I still sensed that we were embarking on a dangerous endeavor and it worried me to my very bones.

Our unspoken mutual silence persisted as we briskly marched towards our destination and the hopeful resolution of the case. I admired the beauty of the dark green and pure white of the snow dusted trees, while Holmes didn't spare them a passing glance. The gaslights were lit near Godwin's estate, illuminating the ice-encrusted cobblestone with a warm orange flush. Holmes scattered the snow off the iron bars of the park's fence from where it collected in the extreme corners of the railing as we walked.

A light drizzle had begun to mist the air as we walked and my companion crossed his arms against the chill and seated himself on the hard and cold bench across the street, his frosted eyes darting around the house and its surrounding with misleading inattention and indifference. I could see from the telltale signs however, the slight clenching of his jaw, the fidget in his left foot, that he was observing and docketing everything within his purview.

"May I ask what we're waiting for, Holmes?"

He smiled a bit, his eyes never settling fully on me. "We are waiting . . . for . . . something."

"Oh, is that so? I feel obliged to thank you for your refreshing candor and specificity, my dear Holmes," I answered with no lack of sarcasm to my words.

He smiled wider, giving me a cursory look before resuming his tireless surveying of the empty street and dark house. "Has it ever occurred to you, my dear Watson, that the reason I hold some minor details from you at times, is because I myself lack them?"

I sat down on the bench beside him, stretching my legs and sighing loudly. "No, such a notion has never occurred to me and, to be frank, I am having considerable difficulty entertaining the idea in this instance as well."

He allowed himself to indulge in that distinct silent laugh that belonged to him but declined to respond. The sky opened up at that moment, letting down a heavy sheet of rain with a loud commotion. I stood and took refuge under a tree but Holmes didn't move, his gaze still trained on the target across the street.

"Holmes, it's a deluge out here!" I exclaimed.

He stood, suddenly alert, and circled around the bench to stand next to me. His gloved hand took hold of my sleeve.

"Did you see that?" he asked.

"What?"

"The gaslight in Ivy's room was lit and then was quickly extinguished."

Before I could answer, he was pulling me across the street. "You're correct, Watson, it is a deluge out here," he agreed excitedly. "Perhaps we should get indoors."

That rush of exhilaration that I would soon grow accustomed to over the course of my many adventures with Holmes struck me then as I realized, intuitively, that we were bearing down on the resolution of the mystery and that all would be revealed by the warm yellow dawning of the sun.

He brought us about to the alley again, stopping in front of the familiar library window. The velvet-covered picklock set was once again flourished as Holmes crouched and worked on the catch. I shifted from foot to foot behind him, anxious to be out of the wet weather enough to care not a whit about breaking and entering.

"You're making me nervous, doctor," he snapped, apparently in tune to my restless movements behind his back.

"Is that working?" I asked, craning my neck over his shoulder to see what he was up to.

"Of course." To add dramatic effect to his words, the window yielded at that moment, sliding open with only a slight whisper of wood brushing against wood. Holmes climbed in cautiously and quietly. I tried to follow with as much grace, but my wounded shoulder and weak knee prevented me from any such dignity and I all but fell into the shadowy room. My only consolation was that Holmes was perhaps unable to see my pathetic display in the cover of darkness, though I'm sure the sound my entry produced was enough to clue him into my difficulty.

"Silence, please, doctor," he whispered, suddenly close to my ear. There was no amusement in his voice in reaction to my inelegance. I felt him move and then a candle was lit on the table next to Godwin's cozy reading chair.

The concentrated candlelight danced over his strong features and he blew out the match. When he stood and looked at me, half his face fell in shadows and the grey of his eyes sliced through the dimness of the library. He gestured me to him, taking my sleeve in a loose but unyielding grip once again and guiding me around the area rug, making certain that I did not travel off the bare wood flooring.

He brought a hand to my ear and whispered, "Take your wet coat off, doctor and remove your shoes. It would be terribly impolite of us to mess Godwin's nice carpet by tracking in rain and slush."

I complied as he did so as well, putting his boots against the wall and walking softly in his stocking feet.

"I think someone has already been here, Watson, the door is opened a wee bit." He gestured to the double doors leading to the main hall, removing his gloves and putting them with his wet shoes. He stood for a bit in the half sphere of firelight, looking deep in thought before tapping me unnecessarily on the shoulder. I had a sudden whiff of nutmeg and fresh rain over Holmes' usual scent of sandalwood and tobacco.

"I'm going to go to the second level and investigate. Would you stay here in case there is someone on the ground floor, doctor?" He started to scamper off without waiting for a response, but I grasped his arm before he could get away.

"What am I to do if there is someone here?" I asked, once again wishing I had brought my revolver and imaging it resting in the top drawer of my bureau at Baker Street.

"Call for me, and try to subdue them." He shook his arm free and strode barefoot across the rug and slipped through the door into the blindness of the hall. The candle sputtered a bit, waving the candlelight against the walls with sudden ferocity. I felt altogether useless, standing about and doing nothing. I moved forward, putting my head to the gap between the library doors and attempting to hear anything going on outside them. Nothing but the hum of silence met my ears. I sighed, and faced the door, debating within myself whether I should dismiss Holmes' instructions or stay put. It was unreasonable of me to think that Holmes was infallible, but I felt instinctively that he always knew what was best and I hesitated to ever contradict him.

My struggle was resolved for me when I heard a shift of air behind me and almost turned in time to avoid the cloth, soaked with the familiar smell of chloroform. As it was, I was still hit with the dizzying smell and by the time I'd pushed back against my assailant; my head swum and I fell to my knees disoriented. I tried to stand, but the small dose of the drug made it difficult to make it up to two feet. My attacker pushed at my back and was suddenly wrapping part of the curtain tassel around my wrist tightly. I struggled and was rewarded with a knee in my back.

"Stay still," a voice ordered quietly, a tone of worry in his southern tinged voice. "I don't know who you are but just stay still."

My feet were tied next but my head was clearing and I managed to cry out before a gag was stuffed into my mouth. I felt even more useless than before and the sudden weight of failure descended on me. I rolled over in time to catch sight of my vanquisher, a youthful looking man of about forty, as he stood to rush at the door. My cry had done its job and the rapid steps of an unshod tread told me that Holmes was coming, making it back into the room before the man could block his way.

The man was off like a shot towards the window, obviously trying to escape from my imposing friend. Holmes, however, wasn't too keen on the idea of letting the answers slip through the window and his fingers so easily. He grabbed hold of the back of his tweed suit and threw him to the ground, where the man regrouped with alarming speed and was back on two feet, shoving past my friend like a bull.

I struggled with my bonds as they tussled, managing to spit the gag out of my mouth but making little leeway with the ties at my wrist and ankles. I could see Holmes was attempting to calm the man more than he was trying to hurt him, but his opponent apparently did not wish to stay. Every move he made to the window, Holmes thwarted. It was if I were watching a strange dance between the two. Once it was painfully obvious that Holmes was not going to relinquish, his rival drew a small revolver, which Holmes swatted away without much thought, as if the move had already been foreseen. The gun clattered under the bookshelf.

At that moment, Godwin barreled into the room, in his pajamas and in general sleep-ridden disarray, with Ivy trailing behind in nothing but her shift. The lawyer sprung forward and bore the man down onto the carpet by the lapels of his jacket, delivering a vicious punch to his face and rendering him immediately unconscious. Grabbing a nearby letter opener, he made to bring it down onto the insensible man beneath him but was stopped by the hand of Holmes.

"There's no need of that! We'll contact the police and find out who he is in a moment," he commanded and moved over to where I sat on the floor with my limbs tied together.

As he worked at my bonds, I was able to observe Mr. Godwin as he raised the letter opener once again, ignoring Holmes' order to stay put and wait patiently for answers.

His actions baffled me, as I could not see why he would wish to end the life of the one person who may have it in his power to shed light on this whole situation. I hadn't much time to contemplate or scrutinize his behavior because I was quick to bring it to Holmes' attention. He was immediately on his feet once again, leaving me bound and helpless, and went to block Godwin's downward blow.

"Are you daft, man?" the detective exclaimed, his hand wrapped tightly around the wrist of Godwin, the letter opener glinting in the air above both their heads.

"Release my hand, sir," the older man ordered, in a low and guttural voice meant to be ominous.

"I will not," Holmes responded, taking a step even closer to the older man's face, his entire bearing attesting to his lack of fear or intimidation. In my career as Holmes' biographer, I would see some feats of strength performed by him that some may call unbelievable. But Godwin was a large man, topping my friend's not inconsiderable height by at least three inches, and quite burly as well.

They stared steadfastly at each other for a long while before Godwin, without warning, lifted his free arm and jabbed my friend in the face with a vicious cuff. Holmes stumbled back, letting go of his opponent's wrist.

"What the bloody -" he began to exclaim, his tone full of irritation at Godwin's inexplicable behavior. He didn't have the chance to finish his expletive though, as Godwin, forgoing his chance to succeed in his attempt to finish off the unconscious man, now came at my friend with that horrid piece of metal and raised it towards him.

There was a quick twinkling of silver metal as he swung brutally at my friend's face with the letter opener. Holmes half-succeeded in blocking the blow with an up-swipe of his forearm and scattered the weapon across the floor towards my bound feet. Holmes had been caught above the eyebrow with the side of the blade and was momentarily blinded by blood dripping between his brows and into his eyes. Mr. Godwin took advantage of the brief disorientation of his victim and, with his entire body, shoved Holmes into the pointed edge of the desk. The detective grunted but, instead of being incapacitated, suddenly landed a shockingly effective jab to Godwin's nose, sending him spinning in full circle to fall on the ground. Holmes himself fell to his knees and clutched his side, his fingers coated in blood as they came away from his coat. Apparently his wound wasn't too serious; he was immediately on his feet and headed in my direction to help me as I scooted over to the discarded letter opener in an attempt to use it to free myself from my bonds.

In the moment we'd both looked away, thinking Godwin was finally subdued, Ivy had somehow entangled herself in the fight by flinging herself onto her recuperated step-father to prevent him from hurling a heavy stone paperweight at Holmes. Godwin restrained her easily, wresting her quickly to the ground on her stomach and wrapping a large hand about her petite neck. He wrenched her head back forcefully. She made a desperate and ugly gurgling sound as her windpipe was pressed closed. In a few moments I was sure he'd either strangle her or break her neck like a chicken bone.

Holmes veered from his course, leaving me to grope for the letter opener myself once again. I finally wrapped my fingers around the handle. As I righted myself, I saw that Holmes had reached the scuffle and, with seemingly no thought or preparation, placed his hands on either side of Godwin's head and - before the older man even knew what was happening - the detective jerked his shoulders to one side. The force twisted Godwin's neck with an extreme show of strength that, although I would be privy to similar shows throughout our lives together, would never again be quite as gruesome as it was at that moment. There was a crack and Godwin fell limply to the rug without any sign of life.

Holmes prided himself on his rationality and self-possession, and this display of almost animalistic instinct to protect and disable was most unlike him. He would confess, years later, that he regretted his actions and that it shamed him to know that he did not have enough composure to think of a better way to save the girl. The very fact that it weighed on his mind enough to bring it up to me near twenty years later proved that it was the one illegal and questionable action (and there would be many) that touched his conscience - maybe not on account of the victim but because it reminded him of how very emotional he could be.

Now he simply stared at Godwin for a moment, almost dazedly, before rolling him off Ivy and unnecessarily feeling for a pulse while Ivy scuttled up and stoically stood facing the opposite wall for a great while.

Holmes collapsed into a chair, leaving me to work my way out of my bonds. Ivy finally turned and crossed the room, her peculiar gait even slower and more pronounced. She stopped at the mysterious stranger's prone form and dropped to place her palms flat on his chest, staring at Homes where he sat; fingers in a steeple in front of his face, and his eyes closed.

I hesitated to break the silence, knowing Holmes needed a moment to collect himself after what he'd done.

The unconscious man began to stir. Ivy felt his face in, what could only be termed, concern, and looked once more to Holmes, as if for help.

"You wish me to wake him?" he snapped at her. The situation had bore down on him and his every movement oozed frustrated energy. He stood and pulled roughly on the man's sleeve, patting him none-too-gently on the face to rouse him. Ivy settled her hands in her lap and watched passively, oblivious to my friend's annoyance. The man's eyelashes fluttered and he finally came to after Holmes unceremoniously shoved a decanter of brandy in his mouth and poured it down his throat.

The man bolted upright, coughing and sputtering violently. He looked about dumbly, rubbing the back of his neck before settling his eyes on the dead man that lay out on the floor.

"Good heavens! Did you kill him?" he blurted.

Holmes towered over him. Apparently fearing for his life, the man searched about for his gun but, upon finding it missing, began to rise.

"If you are wise," Holmes commanded, "you will seat yourself in that chair and will not move until I tell you that you may."

The stranger obeyed. Holmes sat back in his own seat and eased his suit jacket off of one shoulder. His shirt was stained with blood.

"Let me have a look at that," I requested but he shook his head and waved me off.

"It's merely a scratch. Examine Ivy please." Perhaps at the inn he would have complied with an examination, but here in the company of others, he was not willing to drop his fa軋de of invulnerability and submit to one.

I moved her hair away and checked her neck. The skin was red and bruised but she didn't seem to be favoring it. She sat at the stranger's feet, clutching his trouser knee.

"Who are you?" the man asked.

Holmes dabbed at his face with his handkerchief. "I'll be the only one asking any questions here, so I advise you to keep quiet."

The man complied, watching the detective closely as he pressed the handkerchief against his side to stop the bleeding of his wound.

After a moment, once he was satisfied that the flow had stopped enough to move on to other matters, he leveled that uncompromising gaze onto our mysterious friend. "I think its time for some explanations."


	20. The Unknown Variable

The Unknown Variable

"This has gone all pear-shaped."

Holmes was currently on his knees, groping beneath the low desk to receive the errant handgun that had flown from Goodwin's hand during the erratic tussle that had just gruesomely concluded. Holmes somehow managed to retain his grace, even while scurrying around the carpet with a wound in his side. The stream of muttering issuing from him was barely decipherable from his crouched position, though a few choice words seemed to carry past the muffling of the floor and his outstretched arm. I stood sentinel over our captive who now seemed disinclined to fight and appeared completely content to sit stroking Ivy's chaotic curls that lay splayed across his knee.

With a grunt that was an amalgamation of exhaustion, pain, and triumph, Holmes' hand snaked out from under the furniture, the small pearl-handled pistol firmly circled by his long, blood stained fingers. He opened the barrel, spinning the chamber once before snapping it back in place. His hand shook slightly, a fine trembling that intensified as it traveled down to his fingertips. It was the first time I'd ever seen him wobbly or off kilter. Though I would be witness to it once more as our association bore along; during that horrible case of the Three Garridebs when his hands had frantically searched to see if I'd been shot.

His gait and movements now were lazy and slow as he moved back to his chair, his bare feet barely lifting from the floor. The gracelessness of his stride was troubling to observe.

After settling down with an audible sigh, he closed his eyes, his head leaning back at an awkward angle, the sharp lines of his neck defined and stretched into view. He'd rubbed a hand across his face at some point, leaving a coppery trail of blood across his jaw to the side of his wide mouth.

"If you move one bit," he warned our guest with the butt end of the gun, his eyes still closed and turned to the ceiling, "you'll be for it. Do you understand?"

There was no answer. The fair headed man simply stared at my friend, the expression on his face almost resembling concern. I could hardly blame him seeing as Holmes honestly looked a dreaded mess. My own worry for the detective's well being soon became to much for me. I moved to examine him once again, though his mental state was of more importance to me. However, I was at a loss as to how to go about tending to that and settled for fussing with his jacket to see his wound.

He waved me off. "I'm well, Watson."

I was not to be deterred. "Let me just have a look to see if you need stitching."

He pushed my hand away, nearly arching in the seat to get away from me. "I don't need stitching. There's isn't anymore bleeding. Stop fretting."

"You can't possible know that without looking. Merely - "

"Just leave it, Watson!" He grabbed my wrist with a force much rougher than I knew he meant, shoving me away from him. I stood stiffly, determined to show that I would not beg off simply because he sniped at me. But when he finally raised his eyes to look at me, his face had softened, and though he did not speak the words, I knew he was deeply sorry for his tone. I let him be, shrugging at him as if I did not truly care one way or the other about examining him and reclaimed my chair at a safe distance.

"I'm quite alright," he reiterated after a moment's silence, his voice gentling a shade.

"Of course you are." I couldn't completely keep the thread of sarcasm from my tone.

"Who are you?" our silent friend spoke up at last, directing his question to Holmes and thankfully interrupting our unpleasant little set-to.

"Quiet," Holmes snapped and then immediately seemed to rethink his command. He rubbed the barrel of the gun against his forehead tiredly, eliciting a grimace from me. "Do you have a letter on you?" he asked . He question was met with silence, either because our culprit was trying to be defiant or because he was truly shocked at Holmes words.

The detective outstretched his arm. His hand had returned to its naturally steady state. "Pass it over, please." He commanded.

The man made no move to obey.

"Pass it over," Holmes demanded once again, hissing the words dangerously through his teeth and wiggling his fingers expectantly. When no response still seemed forthcoming, he sighed loudly, cocking his head at a curious angle as if vaguely amused by the man's disobedience.

"Sir, if you do not pass it over right this instant, I will without fail search you for it and most certainly dispose of it in a manner that you will find . . . _unpleasant_." My friend threatened in an unusual fit of temper. This strong warning seemed to spur the man to action and, after a few moments searching through his pockets, he revealed at last a folded and wrinkled piece of parchment.

Holmes unfolded it slowly. He seemed to be favoring his side and the reach of his arm was hindered considerably. I knew better than to broach the subject or inquire as to his level of pain.

He read the letter and then twirled it about in his fingertips, the paper shifting hypnotically from his pinky to his thumb.

"How exactly did you expect this to work?" he finally asked, staring once again at the ceiling. He made no attempt to elucidate on what he had read, leaving me quite in the dark as to what was unfolding about me.

"I don't feel I need to tell you anything," the man replied, trying vainly for a haughty air but failing to quite reach it.

Holmes gave a mock look of affront and then glowered. But it seemed that even that reaction was merely a show to humour the man and his pathetic display of bravado.

"Need I remind you that currently I have the gun?" He waved it airily, the long index finger of his other hand pointed at himself. "And I could still have the law here and see you brought to book."

"I didn't kill that man," his opponent riposted, doing a fair imitation of Holmes by gesturing to himself. He attempted an arrogant smirk but it merely came across as a grimace.

Holmes rustled the note between his fingers pointedly. The paper crackled loudly and emphasized the detective's next words quite nicely. "But I have a note here in my possession that implicates you in Goodwin's murder."

"You can't-"

"Yes, I can prove that this is your handwriting," he interrupted before the man could object. "I've done it many times in the course of my work and its mere child's play to me. Not to mention the small, trivial fact that I have a reputation to back me." He continued, "If you do not start giving me some answers, do not think I am so moral as to above allowing you to be copped for all of this. Especially considering that you _were _here to murder him, were you not?"

Our prey looked cornered. Finally, he answered truthfully, stroking Ivy's hair and looking resigned, "Yes, I was."

"And then you were to plant this note so that it would look like suicide?"

"Yes."

Holmes looked over at Godwin's body. I could tell he'd been studiously avoiding it up to that moment. Now he stared for a bit with the weight of a strange burden in his eye. "Well," he murmured, a inappropriately comical tone in his voice, "I'm afraid I buggered that plan up. Unless there is some way for a man to break his own neck that I am not aware of." He glanced at me questioningly. I shook my head at him, hoping I did not look as much the humouring parent as I felt.

The man craned his neck, trying to peer at the dead man's face without making any sudden movement in fear of Holmes. "Is that what you did?" he murmured, a strange awe tainting his voice at such gruesome power. "I didn't think that was possible."

Both men stared at the corpse for an unbearably long time, as if mesmerized by it. I coughed delicately to break them from their thoughts.

Holmes recovered first, "How were you going to make it look as if Godwin had killed himself," Holmes asked the man, some of his earlier hostility thawing.

"I was going to make him shoot himself."

"And how were you going to go about that?" Holmes sounded a bit amused.

"With the truth." There was a defensive tone to his words, as if he felt he was falling short Holmes's eyes. Which was odd considering the not so insignificant fact that this man had never made the detective's acquaintance before this moment.

"I was going to tell him," he continued, "that I would go to the papers about what really happened twelve years ago. I was going to threaten his reputation."

"Do you have any proof about what happened twelve years ago?" Holmes asked, as if he understood perfectly well what the man was speaking about.

"No, but I was hoping the threat of scandal would have been enough."

"And you're sure this would have worked?"

He shrugged and then cast a meaningful glance at the top of Ivy's head. "No. But I had to try."

Holmes followed his gaze, lingering on Ivy's face, where she held him there with an equally intense and unwavering stare.

"Start from the beginning, please," he softly commanded, leaning his head back. The moonlight missed his face by inches, bathing his shoulder in light. "And do not try to fiddle with me because I'll know. I'm fairly certain I have a clear picture of what has happened here, I merely wish for you to verify it . . . and perhaps prove to me that you're the kind of man I think you are."

The man tilted his head. "Which would be?"

Holmes did not open his eyes but the seriousness of his voice was just as subduing as his most cutting stare. "Someone worth protecting."


	21. Just a little noteynote

Hello there. I'm sorry to say this isn't a real update. I just wanted to let everyone know that I have NOT abandoned this story. I currently transferred to a State University and a have 5 classes on my plate plus work so its been a little hectic. I will be drawing out an outline for the next chapter so be patient please :)

Also, I see some people had some issues with Holmes' language in the last chapter. I can't find anywhere if "shut up" was in use at the time, though I'm quite certain it was for some reason (perhaps I've watched too many period movies where they take liberties with language?) I'll do some research and correct accordingly.

As to the words "arse", this WAS in use as far as my research shows as far back as 1539. Granted it was common mostly amongst the lower classes, but I never really considered Holmes high class. Besides he spent plenty of time amongst the lower classes in Whitechapel and whatnot and I'm sure he was not ignorant to the word, nor a virgin to uttering it (Oh goodness, I'm speaking as if he were real). This story is supposed to be written by Watson at a later date when he could be more honest about Holmes' behavior and when the censure of language was perhaps not so severe. In fact, though Doyle himself may never had written a foul word in his SH stories, the truth of the matter is that men of that time, even gentlemen, did use coarse language at times.Usually not around mixed company, true. But Holmes just murdered someone with his bare hands. To me it would not have seemed genuine to have him start requesting POLITELY for the letter. Especially since he quite frankly blames this man for bringing him to the moment that has now made him a killer. That being said, I am not the kind of person who is married to their work. If anyone has any suggestions, I am open to hearing them as long as whatever replaces this still shows the momentary loss of control Holmes is undergoing (GASP). I will also ponder on it and try to think of some way more fitting, though just as intense, way of wording it. I also just thought the imagery of the threat was entertaining and inventive enough for Holmes :)

So to repeat . . .No there is too much, let me sum up . . . If you have suggestions for word choice, give em up, I'll do my own research, and I will be updating soon :)

We all good?

Good.


	22. Half the Mystery

Half the Mystery

"Perhaps I should start by relating a brief history of where I am from and how I came to be in New York," our mysterious companion began.

His voice was soft, quiet spoken and near a mumble. He paused for a moment, as if gathering his thoughts or his strength and then continued ruefully, "First off, I'll introduce myself since the manner of our meeting precluded any formal introduction. My name is Brandon Jennings and I was born and raised in a small part of Texas to a father in the textile business. He was a gentlemanly man, quiet, hardworking and polite. My mother died when I was young, but I remember the love and gentleness my father displayed in his dealings with her. My sister was older than me by a considerable amount of years and she took my mother's death badly, growing progressively sicker at heart as the months drew on. We are not sure if she walked in front of the train or if she fell to the tracks but she was out of my life before I'd reached the age of twelve . . . I loved her."

Mr. Jennings' face here clouded over with a strong and sad emotion. "It seemed," he continued, "that every woman in my life was destined to leave me. I hadn't come to that realization at the time, though if I had it would have spared me a bit of heartache as I grew to be a young man. You see, when I turned nineteen, I met a young girl who lived at a cotton plantation. The beginning of our acquaintance was unconventional and hardly boded well for our future. My father was a strong abolitionist and during a public abolitionist speech at the town hall, she came with her parents as supporters of slavery. Looking back, it was glaringly obvious that our romance would be a short one, but despite our differing views, I fell madly in love with her. Even in moments of intense debate, the fire in her eyes when she spoke in defense of her viewpoint charmed me rather than repulsed me as it should have. I alluded to marriage. She seemed favorable." He paused. The sad emotion that had coloured his face a moment before now turned dark and bitter. "But she was not," he continued, "and I was only let in on this grand secret on the day of her marriage to another man."

"An abolitionist?" Holmes asked quietly.

"No, she married the young nephew of another plantation owner. I suppose it was the right choice for her. Our views would have torn us apart. The cut would not have smarted so much had I not suspected she'd never harbored any tender feelings for me. I believe now that her attentions were all in mockery and I was simply too young and too trusting in human goodness to notice or accept that someone could be so very cruel in their dealings with others. After this disappointment, I rambled about Georgia and then eventually headed up North to Chicago to see if I could make any contribution to the growing abolitionist party there. I spent a considerable time in that city but soon grew restless. At the age of two and twenty, I packed up every item I had to my name and came here to New York with no plan but to try to live for the first time in my life. I had some experience from living during the summer on my uncle's farm in breeding and slaughtering cows and was able to find employment at St. Clare's butcher shop just down the street from here.

"On the second day of my new employment, Mrs. Gertrude Godwin came into the store. She ordered two racks of lamb, a rump roast, and a leg of cow. I remember to this day the exact items. I didn't realize at the time that she'd affected me at all. She was timid and hardly spoke a word beyond her request. She reminded me of my sister in some way, during those last months before her death, when despondency was claiming residence in her heart. The resemblance crossed my mind then but I did not give her much thought after she'd left. At that point, all she was to me was a strangely pretty, married woman with an exceptionally quiet and odd daughter hanging at her side."

Mr. Jennings paused again, twisted his thick fingers through Ivy's curls, the strands shifted through his hand like fine flour through a colander.

"She," he began again, gestured slightly to the young girl's head, "was only about six years of age. Gertrude was newly married to Godwin but already she seemed dejected. She visited the shop a few more times but I did not speak much to her. Ivy was more communicative, strangely enough. She asked me about the different meats hanging in the window and even brought me a painting of a cow's skinned hide. It was not very pleasant, but it was touching to me in some way. Gertrude seemed wary but glad that Ivy had opened up to someone. Apparently I was the first person, outside Gertrude herself, whom Ivy had spoken to directly. I do not know why she chose me . . . perhaps I never will."

"And what of Mrs. Godwin?" Holmes asked; a note of petulant impatience in his voice. His head was laid back on the chair seat and his eyes were closed. I recognized the look as Holmes' way of absorbing every detail of a client's narrative but poor Mr. Jennings seemed confused at the detective's seeming disinterest. He cast a questioning glance in my direction and I nodded for him to continue.

"Our friendship grew, I admit. There was nothing improper in the whole affair. I struck up a conversation with her about Blake's engravings. I don't remember how, but I remember the awkwardness in which I broached the subject. I also remember the kind look on Gertrude's face as she attempting to pretend as if she did not notice my bumbling manner."

"And why were you attempting conversation with a married woman?" Holmes asked tensely.

"I was lonely." Mr. Jennings replied simply.

"Lonely for a woman?"

"No, merely lonely. Can I be faulted for that?"

Holmes frowned, "No, your feelings cannot be held against you, only your intentions."

"My intentions were honorable, I assure you. I needed someone to speak to and we got on well after the embarrassment of that first interchange. From then on we spoke freely with each other about books and music. She'd never been to the opera or a music concert. Godwin did not care for public entertainment and refused to bring her. I myself hadn't enough change to bring her, nor would it have been appropriate. I commiserated with her, which was all I did. It was all I could do. The circumstances pained me, I admit. But I had resigned myself to our circumstances."

"Was she in love with you?" Holmes asked bluntly.

"I wasn't aware. If she was, she was too honorable a lady to make any show of it. She was married, if not in her heart, then by the law and she respected that. So did I."

"This is a fascinating tale of friendship . . ." Holmes remarked with his usual sardonic tone, "but it would do you well to come to the point. Our time here is not unlimited."

"One day," our guest went on, doing an admirable job of ignoring Holmes snappishness, "she came into the shop and as she reached over the counter," he mimicked the motion, extending his arm over the air, "and the lace of her dress rode up her arm. I saw bruises there. Angry, red bruises . . . like a hand mark. But when I commented on it, she ran out of the store and did not return for weeks."

"But eventually, she did return?" Holmes prodded softly.

"Yes, she came in and simply stood there until the store was clear of any other customer. She broke down and told me everything. Every word and emotion that had been clamped down before came pouring out. Godwin was a violent man; self-centered and wholly hardhearted. I listened to her - I sensed this was what she needed. But when she finished I could not help but suggest a way out of her situation."

"Oh, and what way would that be?" I asked, wondering if he had truly been so bold as to suggest running away with her.

"I have relations still in Texas. I was sure they would have taken her and Ivy in, pretended as if she were family. Godwin would never have been able to find her," Jennings answered.

"And you would have gone as well-" Holmes began.

"No," the man interjected. "It was not that way at all. I was never going to see her again. I was willing to give her up in order to protect her. It was a fair price to me."

Holmes nodded, his head resting back once again against the chair as he absorbed this detail. After a moment's contemplation, he peered at our guest through hooded eyes. "But she did not go."

"No, she waved me off and left. I cursed myself, thinking I'd ruined any chance of convincing her by acting too soon. But then she came back. Her eyes were red, and I asked her if she were hurt. She told me no, she wasn't, but that something horrible had occurred . . . Godwin had touched Ivy. She'd missed a note during her piano lessons and he pushed her - hardly a push. But that was how it had begun when they were first married, before he truly hit her for the first time. To Gertrude, that was enough to change her mind. She wanted to listen to my plan. I told her to meet in the park, and there I would give her the details and tickets for her escape." He broke off here and cleared his throat, covering the emotion that had broken into his voice.

"How was she killed?" I inquired softly, knowing that this was the most important aspect of the whole story but Holmes seemed reticent to push our guest while he was clearly so affected.

"I met her, as arranged. But Godwin showed up before I could give her anything . . . he just . . . shot her." He waved his hand in the air, mimicking the nonchalance that her murderer showed. His eyes were clouded over, lost in the memory. "I remember," he continued quietly, "that she . . . flinched. No. She _jerked_. Tendrils of her hair fell forward, over her forehead, framed her face. I remember, absurdly, for just a second - though it felt as if time had stopped - thinking that she looked absolutely beautiful. Then my mind caught up to what was happening when blood . . . came from her mouth." Mr Jennings' eyes finally focused, falling levelly on Holmes. "I was running before the second shot was fired. The third was aimed at me, I was hit in the leg but I didn't even feel it." Here he pulled up his pant leg, showing us a faint scar along his calf. "I took one of my tickets and left for Texas."

"You knew she was dead, isn't that right?" Holmes stated quietly, sympathy dulling the edges of his usual strident voice.

"Yes."

"And you loved her."

"Yes."

"Wanted her."

"Yes."

Holmes grew still, his eyes focused on a spot of rug near his feet. After a long stretch of silence, he waved the faux suicide not in the air once again. "Explain this."

Jennings took a deep breath, rallying himself. "When I got to Texas, I decided to bide my time until I could find some way to steal Ivy away."

"And to kill Godwin?"

"And to kill Godwin," he admitted, without a touch of remorse. "Would you have wanted any different, Mister Holmes?"

The detective hesitated for only a second. "No."

Jennings nodded. "So I waited a few years," he continued, "and came back. I stayed unobtrusive, a shadow. I was waiting for the right moment. Then I heard about the death threats against Godwin. It was . . . perfect. Absolutely perfect. I knew then that it was a sign. That it was time."

"So you figured that whatever you did to Godwin would simply be traced back to the original stalker? You would simply carry out the murder that another man had already intended, and let him take the blame?" I asked, finally seeing the puzzle begin to form a clear picture.

"That was the idea." Jennings nodded, "but what I didn't realize was that I was a few hours too late. When I shot at Godwin, his would-be murderer was already dead. It was just . . . bad timing, I suppose. So I decided that I simply had to continue on with my plan, though. I had hoped that with the two events taking place in so short a time, with no seeming explanation, coupled with the suicide note, that the investigators would be confused enough to overlook me as I got away with Ivy." He looked ruefully at Holmes, "But it seems I underestimated some."

He fell silent, signaling the end of his story.

Holmes sighed. "And here we are," he stated climatically. "So what am I to do?" he asked but was up and shoving the note into his pocket before either of us could respond.

"When does your train leave for Texas?" he asked our captive.

"Six in the morning," Jennings answered, looking confused.

"Is there another one later in the day?"

"Yes, a quarter past two."

Holmes' gaze fell onto Ivy. "Here's what we are going to do, Mister Jennings. You are going to take one of those tickets and leave here as planned."

"I refuse to leave without Ivy." The man stood, finally disobeying Holmes order to sit.

"You will. But she will be on that train in the afternoon, where you will be waiting on the other end," Holmes declared, with that, at times, annoying tone of finality he could assume when he had made up his mind.

Jennings once again looked confused. "Am I to understand that you're letting me go? And allowing me to take Ivy?"

"Yes." Holmes was already shrugging on his jacket and reaching for his shoes.

"But how will you explain this, Holmes?" I asked. "Are you going to confess?"

I do not think I will ever quite forget the look that graced my friend's features at my suggestion - that peculiar mix of affront and amazement.

"Confess? I think not." He did not explain any further but shooed Mister Jennings quite unceremoniously out the window, rambling quick assurances that Ivy would be safe and placed on said train at two o'clock the next day. When Jennings was gone, I repeated my question as to what he planned to do.

"Simple, Watson. We are to investigate." At my bewildered look, he gestured at Ivy. "Young Miss Godwin here summoned us at our lodgings because someone had broken in and murdered her father. At least, that will be the story you will tell the night watchman that you are going to go fetch. When the investigators arrive, we will have examined the crime scene and already be completely and utterly at a loss as to what happened."

I was aware that my mouth was hanging open but I could not quite overcome my shock. "You mean," I sputtered, "you wish to lie to the police?"

"Or I could simply go to jail!" he shouted and then caught himself, checking his frustration with a swipe of his hand against his forehead. "Please, Watson. Do you see any other way?"

I conceded that I did not. Holmes nodded, rubbing the carpet smooth with his feet and rearranging the fallen furniture and lamps. "We must not leave anything that Pembry will catch on to. He's a smart puppy," he mumbled, more to himself than to me. Upon catching sight of me still standing stupidly, he frowned pointedly. "I think it's about time you fetched a policeman, Watson. After all, someone _has_ been murdered."


	23. The Getaway

The Getaway

Despite the cold nipping at my exposed fingers and nose, I felt inexplicably warm. The winter wind rose from the carefully shoveled snow, swirling lazily beneath the lamplights, but my skin was flushed and prickly with goose bumps. Though it only took a minute or two to locate a policeman and relay the urgent message that a murder had taken place, it seemed nearly an eternity. I was not ashamed to admit that my nerves were excited on account of my friend. Subterfuge was never my strong suit - as Holmes would be the first to point out - and now my friend's freedom depended on my ability to lie. I requested that the officer fetch Detective Pembry, thus curtailing any further questions. As the night watchman hurried away towards the police station, the pressure upon my chest lessened, though it did disappear entirely.

I'd attempted up to this point to avoid dwelling too much upon the events leading up to this moment. I stood for a while, gathering my strength and the last of my fortitude, staring at the strange meeting of pale moonlight and eerie lamplight upon the cobblestone. Holmes was a strong man, mentally and physically, but I wondered if he would truly be able to stare a battalion of policemen in the collective face and lie about his guilt - about the murder of a man. The threat of criminal prosecution was not the only aspect of the whole affair that I feared. When all was said and done, Holmes was now a killer. Would he be able to live with such a thing upon his conscience? Even if he were not, I highly doubted I would ever be permitted close enough to see the emotional struggle. That man was a brick wall of aloofness when he wished for his privacy. Despite his rare moments of openness - such as his blatant strategy to broach the subject of his work when he laid out his "book of life" on the breakfast table that fateful morning during the first month of our acquaintance - for the most part, I knew very little about the man I shared rooms with. Not that I doubted his integrity or thought for even a moment that his brutal actions tonight were the norm.

But what was done was done. To stew upon what had come to pass was now simply a striving after the wind.

I pulled my collar up higher about my face and turned slowly upon my heel. I was now walking against the gusts of cold. I felt like Dante as he traversed the edge of the vestibule into the bowels of hell. Godwin's flat fronted house had taken on a new facade. The city of woe was its porch and doorway - _abandon all hope ye who enter here_. I peered up at the sky, wondering absurdly if the star studded heavens that I saw above me resembled at all the firmament that Dante gazed upon after climbing down Lucifer through the center of the earth, emerging out of hell and into the free air -

I realized that this line was dreadfully melodramatic. Thinking such bleak thoughts was sure to hinder my ability to protect my dear friend. I squared my shoulders and ascended the porch steps efficiently and quickly, avoiding the childish urge to look for that famous inscription above the doorpost, feeling suddenly anxious to see Holmes as if I believed it would be the last time.

I had inadvertently left the front entrance open in my dazed haste from the house and so there was no shelter from the icy air within the walls of Godwin's home. Holmes was nearly on his face in the middle of the room, his nose bent close to the rug.

"I ordered the night watchman to fetch Detective Pembry, so I believe I've bought us a bit of time," I began. Holmes didn't appear to hear me, scudding along the side length of the rug, taking care to keep on the hard floor. "What are you doing, Holmes?"

"I am attempting to see if this bare footprint can be discovered as mine." He pointed to a space where the soft fur of the carpet was chaotic. I saw no footprint in the haphazard pattern. But I would not admit that to Holmes.

"Why do you simply not brush all the footprints away?"

"Because, Watson, that damned Detective Pembry has learned well and would surely grow suspicious if there were no footprints to be seen." He moved his foot over the mark, by all accounts appearing to measure the size of his winter boots to the unshod imprint. Ivy stood by the whole while, staring at Holmes' every move with almost pious fascination.

He began righting some overturned objects on the table he had been so unceremoniously pushed into earlier. "I already tidied up around outside the window," he began to reassure me, "so there is no evidence to point to us."

"_Us_?" I asked incredulously.

He looked up at me. He'd turned up the full gaslight and in the harsh glow he looked suddenly dark and lost. He did not respond, but I read the sudden fear in his expression. I think his trust in our solidarity was the only prop currently holding up his calm facade.

"Terribly sorry, Holmes," I murmured. I could summon up no other words of encouragement. Holmes seemed pacified, though, and began examining his suit jacket.

"My jacket is not torn, is it, Watson?" he asked, stretching the material around him in an attempt to examine the seam.

"No, but you might want to stop favoring your side if you do want the police to suspect your injury," I advised.

Holmes frowned but straightened, apparently having been unaware of his posture. I vainly tried not to think about what such absentmindedness meant about his state of mind.

He removed a starched handkerchief from his pocket and began calmly wiping the blood from between his long fingers. "Pembry is a smart man," he told me, "but we have an advantage with him in that he is trusting. Leach will be a problem though. Keep a weather eye out for trouble. Don't let him catch scent of . . . me. If he thinks for even a moment that we're being untruthful, he'll latch on the idea and worry it like a dog with a bone. It's in his nature - I've met his kind before."

He pushed the napkin back into the coat pocket and turned to Ivy and touched her arm, though the gesture was not needed to gain her attention.

"Ivy, I need you to pay close attention to what I am about to tell you," he started. Ivy nodded. "When the policemen arrive, I will tell them that you came to my room and urged me to come here. We must not allow the policemen to know what happened to your father. Do you understand? If they were to know, I would be in a great deal of trouble."

Ivy nodded.

Holmes glanced round at me. I shrugged at his questioning glance. The extent of Ivy's ability to comprehend the situation was beyond my guess. She had successfully plotted with Jennings to kill her own father, so perhaps ruses and stratagems were not as foreign to her as her character would have us believe.

Holmes wandered back to Godwin's body. He began examining his head, most likely looking for any clues he would have need of obliterating in order to avoid the gallows.

"Do you think, Holmes, that Godwin had any inkling that today would be his last?" I asked after a moment of watching him."Do you think he knew he was going to die?"

Holmes tried to hide a look of exasperation. "If he'd been clairvoyant, Watson, I'm sure he would have made plans to avoid being killed," he answered, purposefully taking my philosophical musings literally so as to discourage me from further ponderings.

"I am merely commenting on the swiftness of death. It is upon you in a mere instant."

Holmes was quiet for awhile, checking about the body with a clinician's care.

"Cowards die many times before their deaths," he repeated softly, absently.

"If that helps lighten your conscience…" I replied, I admit, a bit snappishly.

He glared at me. "My conscience? My conscience is clear, Watson."

Pembry's voice sounded through the hallway and prevented me from answering Holmes' bold statement.

"Mr. Holmes?" The young detective stopped short upon entering the room. He whistled softly, coming to stand near Godwin with an almost admiring fascination that was peculiar to the police and those most closely intimate with death on a regular basis.

"Is his neck broken?"

Holmes nodded slightly to me and I caught on a second before Pembry would have become suspicious of our silence.

"Yes, yes," I hurriedly answered. "From my examination, it would appear it has been twisted."

"Twisted?" The blonde man responded. "Twisted with what?"

I coughed, casting a look at Holmes. "With someone's bare hands," I answered honestly. That much was sure to be discovered. The less I lied about, the less guilty I'd appear.

"Ivy," Holmes cut in, thankfully drawing attention away from me. "Could you go to your room and pack some clothes?"

After Ivy had dutifully exited, Holmes turned his attention to Pembry. "Watson was able to examine the body, but I'm sure a postmortem will be necessary to definitively answer the cause of death. Young Miss Ivy knocked on my door and brought us here. We entered and found the scene and the body just so. We are just as much in the dark as you are, I'm afraid." He shrugged, playing the nonchalance card with the expertise of a professional player.

"Do you have no theories? This is such a turn after Matthews' death," the detective implored. He took out his small notebook, aiming his pen to take down any gems the consulting detective would offer.

Holmes shrugged again. "It makes no sense to me, either. I think a full investigation is needed."

Pembry looked up, confusion darkening his features. "You say that as if you will not be involved in said investigation, Mr. Holmes."

Holmes shook his head. "I will not," he answered simply.

"But - " Pembry sputtered a bit, "But you can't leave before the case is solved."

"Actually, I can. I am no longer employed by anyone, nor will I be compensated any longer for my help. There is also the simple matter that I am completely at a loss as to what is going on. A wise man admits defeat. But I will give you some advice that may help you as you go along -when you have excluded the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth."

Pembry looked disoriented for a moment, glancing around the room as if there were something there he was not seeing. "What does that mean?" he finally demanded. "Do you know something you aren't saying?" The younger man took a step forward towards Holmes, suspicion growing in his eyes.

Ivy returned then, setting a small linen bag on the floor and crossing over to Holmes as if she could sense the conflict between the two men. She took his hand, lacing her elegant fingers through his unresponsive ones. He looked down at their joined hands as if he did not know whether to distance himself or humour the girl.

Leach arrived, taking one glance at the body and finally settling his attention on the young girl and her proximity to Holmes. "Either she's damned near naked or laying all over someone. Can anyone keep this child under control?" he exclaimed, though his concern was obviously mocking. The few other uniformed officers who followed on his heels snickered appreciatively at their superior officer's jest.

Holmes sighed, disentangling himself from the girl's hold.

"Or perhaps you prefer her undisciplined?" the older man sneered.

Holmes merely smiled in response, admirably ignoring the murmur that rose up among the other men at the suggestion.

Pembry coughed pointedly. "Mr. Holmes here has just informed me that he was brought here by Miss Ivy and that this is exactly as he found Godwin and the room. He apparently knows no more than we do."

Leach quirked an shaggy eyebrow. "What a surprise."

My friend's jaw twitched, which I recognized as a sign of anger. He restrained himself, though, from any of his well constructed snide remarks.

"I realize you all have a lot of work ahead of you," Holmes started, "but I think it's imperative we address the issue of Ivy's care. Since she now has no family remaining, I plan on sending her to some relatives I have in Edinburgh. She can leave with us tomorrow on the boat to England."

"I know you're eager to spirit her off, Mr. Holmes," Leach began, "but I think it would be wise that she remain here in New York in case we have need to call upon her for the trial."

"When, and _if_, there is a trial, Mr. Leach," Holmes returned, "I hardly see any judge or court calling upon young Miss Ivy here to testify. Do you really believe that she may be of any assistance? Even if she did know something useful, I highly doubt anyone could get it out of her. So I ask again, Detective Pembry, may I make some arrangements for Miss Ivy?"

Pembry ran a tense hand through his hair. "I suppose that is alright. If she agrees, that is. She is old enough to be her own woman. And I would like your assurance that we will be able to contact her again if the need be. But, Mr. Holmes, I find it hard to believe that you truly intend to just leave. Even if you are not being compensated, I'm sure you'll want to see this through to the end."

Holmes gestured for Ivy to gather her bag. "I'm sorry Pembry, but I'm afraid I simply can't think of how to help you."

"Yes, young man," Leach cut in, falsely convivial towards the younger officer. "Can't you see Holmes here is owning up to his failings? It takes a strong man to admit his shortcomings. Perhaps Mr. Holmes would like to return to London and help the great British Empire with its missing pens and stolen love letters. It's unfair of us to keep him here with a case he can't solve."

The anger grew more in my friend's posture, but I could still see where he held his arm stiffer to his wounded side and knew he would not dally longer than needed simply to battle wits with an idiot like Leach.

"Quite right," he agreed tightly. "I do wish to return to London. So if you'll excuse us, we'll leave you to your case."

Pembry narrowed his eyes in sudden suspicion but Holmes had already moved past him towards the door with me and Ivy close behind. As he passed Leach, he leaned towards his ear.

"When you solve this case," I heard him whisper, "please do get in touch with me. I would love to know how it all ends . . . I won't hold my breath, though."

As we walked down the hall, Pembry caught up to us.

"Holmes! Please, tell me what you know." He took my friend's arm with a swift motion, on his wounded side, but besides a slight tightening of his shoulders, Holmes hid his pain.

"I know nothing."

"Do you even have a guess?"

"I never guess."

He shook off the man's hold and we exited without further hindrance.

"We aren't really taking Ivy to Scotland, are we, Holmes?" I asked.

"No, she will be on the train tomorrow headed towards Jennings and her new life, as promised," he answered. He stopped a good distance from the house and finally bent over in pain, stifling a curse beneath his breath.

"Are you alright?" I reached for his shoulder.

"Yes, yes. It just smarts a bit." He dismissed my concern and straightened. He held his jacket closer to him and continued on.

"I'm a bit confused," I confessed.

"A bit?" he replied.

"Yes, I still don't understand how Matthews and his fiance's suicide play into the whole matter."

Holmes hissed through his teeth as he walked, pain etched into his features. "That is simply explained, Watson. Mr. Matthews was obviously aware of Godwin's murder of his wife. They came to an arrangement that kept Matthews quiet and in enough money to pay for a wedding and a move to Nice."

"He blackmailed Godwin?"

"Blackmailed, or perhaps he was bribed. Either way, Matthews knew."

"So something happened to turn their little relationship sour?"

"Yes, Violet DuBois killed herself."

"But," I started, confused. "What would that have to do with Mrs. Godwin's murder?"

"Do you remember what she wrote in her journal, Watson? She had discovered something heartbreaking. Something about someone she loved. I do not know how, but I believe she uncovered the whole affair. Mrs. Godwin was her good friend, and to know that her own fiancé knew of her death and was profiting from it drove her to that last desperate act."

"And once she killed herself," I jumped in as all the pieces fell into place, "Matthews had no more incentive to keep quiet and so Godwin decided to murder him."

Holmes gave me an appreciative look. "And where do the letters play in?" he prompted as if he were a teacher guiding along a pupil to the right answer.

"He made them up as an alibi. He planted them himself for weeks, even calling you here so that it would seem as if he were being threatened."

"Yes. Why?"

"So that when he finally murdered Matthews it would seem to be self defense. He knew it would be especially easy to have the case written off as such because he was friends with Detective Leach."

Holmes smiled, wide and bright. "That's right, Watson. Spot on. I've never been more impressed. "I blushed at the compliment as Ivy moved closer to Holmes, threading her fingers through his once again as if wishing to share in his joy.

"Although," he continued, "I wouldn't attribute Godwin's ease at getting away with murdering his wife to his and Leach's friendship, if you may even call it that. I believe Leach simply truly believed that, whatever really happened to Mrs. Godwin, she deserved it. I have noticed an overabundance in recent times of men who harbor deep, irrational loathing of women for no apparent reason. I saw it plenty in London and apparently it is no less common in other parts of the world."

"It's hard to imagine that one man could harbor so much malice in him. Godwin seemed to go from one evil deed to another without a second thought. How does one go about becoming something like that?" I wondered.

"Watson, I think Shakespeare summed it up quite eloquently when he exclaimed: 'What a piece of work is a man'. When you've seen the things I have seen, that sentiment rings truer and truer."

When we reached the Inn, I rang Mrs. Swanson to prepare a room for the night to accommodate Ivy. Holmes, for his part, fell upon his down coverlet and went suddenly still with sleep, fully clothed and bleeding while I settled into the chair beside him, an exhausted sentinel ready to help him if he woke during the night.


	24. Epilogue

Epilogue

"Well, Watson, we seem to have fallen upon evil days."

I stole a inconspicuous glance outside the window of our London flat. The time of the year was mid spring and the April showers were well under way. The patter of rain against the side of 221b Baker Street was comforting in its own way, though the cold stiffened my shoulder. Holmes had no issue with the weather, and I knew from the drowsy but contented look upon his face that pleasant nip of wind and refreshing smell of a newly bathed city landscape was soothing to him. Even though I knew he was not referring to the outside conditions, I slipped comfortably into my role as his dim-witted companion and shrugged, sipping lightly at my spiced tea.

"With all you've seen in your work, Holmes, I hardly can see how a little rain can dispirit you so."

The corners of his mouth twitched but he withheld the smile that I knew was threatening to overtake his usually serious face. I suspected my feigned ignorance wasn't so very lost on him as I hoped it was.

He wriggled a bit on the couch, turned from where he sprawled to watch the window with his head nearly upside down over the divan's curved arm, and faced me. Crossing his arms and settling once again into the warm cushions of his seat, he let his eyes flutter closed as he responded.

"I was commenting, my dear boy, on the rather lackluster state of criminal society. It's a bit depressing to see how easily my opponents are deterred by a little wetness. Doesn't help one feel quite as heroic as they'd like when it comes time to stop them."

He did not appear quite as discontent as he words made him out to be. I smiled into the steam of my cup and turned my attention to the betting pages of my paper.

"Hopefully it will wash some of the filth off our London streets," I commented.

The detective did not respond and when I looked expectantly at him, he was quite soundly asleep. I didn't bother to hide my smile now and I was still in this happy state when Mrs. Hudson knocked lightly at the door and graciously handed me the day's mail and messages. There were quite a few for my flatmate, many of which I could discern as summonses and thank-you letters. However, there was one letter which bore a very familiar return address. I nearly upset my breakfast plate as I stood to rouse Holmes.

He glared at me a bit when he finally came to, his eyes already a bit glassy with sleep and confusion. I thrust the letter into his face and his expression brightened a bit.

"Detective Pembry, eh?" He took the letter, opening it messily but languidly with his fingernail. I bit back a sigh at his deliberate slowness, knowing he was amusing himself with my impatience. When he finally unfolded the neat parchment, he scanned it quietly to himself. After finishing, he took up that slightly annoying habit of twisting the paper between his fingers while staring at the ceiling. Finally, and not a moment too soon, he silently passed the note over to my eager hands.

It ran this way:

**My Estimable Detective Holmes, **

**I am writing to express my thanks once more for your help concerning the Godwin case that took place over the winter and to keep you appraised of its development. As of now, Mr. Godwin's death has been ruled a suicide, despite the absurdity of a man twisting his own neck. The lack of evidence and motive have forced our hands in this matter, though the case does remain open for any further evidence and, trust me, I will continue to investigate until I have come to a satisfactory conclusion, even if only for my own peace of mind. **

**The real matter I wish to discuss with you concerns the lovely Miss Ivy and her current living arrangements. In an attempt to reach her, in order to ascertain her condition and any needs she might have, I discovered, much to my surprise, that you do not seem to have any relatives of a traceable nature living anywhere near the Edinburgh area. I, in no way, doubt your word, Mr. Holmes, and trust that this minor mystery may be cleared up soon. **

**I eagerly await your return letter, Mr. Holmes. I hope that you are having a pleasant time in London with just the right amount of criminality to keep you busy yet keep the people of London relatively safe.**

**Best Regards, **

**Detective Pembry**

**Post Script,**

**My aunt wishes me to assure you that if you ever have the need (or the desire) to visit our great city once again, she has a piece of apple pie always waiting for you. **

Once I was done digesting the meaning of the letter, I looked at Holmes. He surprised me, though, by indulging in a long laugh and standing, his movements easy and free from worry.

"What are you going to tell him, Holmes?"

He raised an eyebrow and reached for the remains of the teapot, sighing. "I'll think of something, I'm sure. I believe I'm a little out of his jurisdiction now, so fret not, my dear Watson. I haven't found myself on the criminal side of the jail bars yet and I don't intend to for quite some time."


	25. Quick note

I've opened up a new website for my writing. You can find it in my profile under my homepage. I've also created a poll you guys might find interesting.

C'est tout!!! 


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